


Songbird

by PeekabooFang



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Crossover, Established Jaime/Brienne although sadly they probably won't show up, F/M, Minor Jon Snow/Ygritte - Freeform, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, Slow Burn, implied future! Gendarya, rape mention, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 99,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeekabooFang/pseuds/PeekabooFang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1880s Westeros. Brilliant young singer Sansa Stark enters the King’s Landing Opera House, hoping to understudy diva Cersei Lannister. But what happens when the mysterious Opera Ghost has more ambitious plans for her? And what of that gruff, disfigured stagehand Sandor Clegane and the undeniable pull they have to each other? Phantom of the Opera AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first multi-chapter fic here. 
> 
> I'm going for mostly a mix of the books and TV here in my portrayals of the characters (to be frank, I always see Rory McCann as Sandor, so just shave ten or so years off him and that's who you've got here).
> 
> Although this takes place in 1880s Westeros, I do use language that isn't exactly Westerosi: soprano, contralto, rendezvous, brandy, etc. Hope it's not too jarring.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The opera house in King’s Landing was just over a century old – nothing, a mere blink of an eye in the vast history of Westeros.

Yet to the young woman standing outside its doors, she was as awed by this monument to artistic ambition as if she stood at something as ancient and august as the ruins of the Wall.

This was Sansa Stark’s first visit to her country’s capital. Growing up in the Northern village of Winterfell, where logging and trapping were the principal means of commerce, all she knew of society came from magazines she poured over with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. Each girl imagined themselves in the latest Reach fashion as the snow howled outside. 

Sansa stood almost trembling staring at the…the _palace_ before her. _Now to make a dream a reality!_

She nodded happily at that thought. Yes. That is exactly the sort of sentence a heroine would think in a novel.

She picked up her large carpet bag and started nimbly up the opera’s gilded steps. She felt a foreign thrill as she passed through the curved archway of the entrance, past the statues of Valyrian gods. M. Garnear, the architect who rebuilt the opera house after…after the fire, had been heavily influenced by classical Valyrian design. He’d even brought in sculptors from Essos to carve from marble the figures of Valyrian mythology lining the roof and exterior stairway, often depicted riding their long-dead dragons. This served as an odd contrast to some of the more “Second Empire” contemporary designs of the building itself, with its soft pastel colors and intricate carvings.

Nowhere was this more apparent than when Sansa – juggling her carpet bag – pushed her way through the large doorway and into the room of the grand staircase. The murals of cherubs, knights, and horses along the walls and domed ceiling were a far cry from the half-naked Valyrian gods standing outside the establishment.

Sansa stood dumb at the foot of the staircase. Now that she was here, she felt her nerve fail her. It is no small thing to run away from home - into the very scene of her family’s near ruin.  
She thought for a moment of how her father’s kind but stern face would look if he knew his eldest daughter was taking the very footsteps his departed sister once took.  
But Sansa _wasn’t_ Lyanna. And that whole nastiness was over twenty years ago! Although her father seldom spoke of Lyanna or the past, the haunted cloud that fell over Lord Stark’s sad gray eyes when she was mentioned made it seem as if he were freshly seeing that past all over again. 

Sansa straightened her back. Hesitating no longer, she marched up the long staircase with sure, resolute steps. _She_ would not be so beholden to the past. _She_ would not let her one true dream –– to sing and sing and sing onstage (and also fall madly in love with some fiery-eyed, brooding hero of a man, but that could wait for now), be held back by tragic figures long dead.  
Yet as Sansa grew closer to the foyer, empty of almost everyone but pageboys and a few clerks hurrying this way and that, she could not ignore a deep shiver within her. Her mind would not obey her. She’d start thinking….

Was it here, at this pillar at the top of the staircase, where Rhaegar Targaryen, a nobleman who had left his family behind to compose and teach ( _a runaway, like me, like Lyanna_ ) was confronted by Robert Baratheon, the fiancé Lyanna had left behind when she came to the opera house to sing?

It was said that no one had heard such a voice as Lyanna Stark’s before or since. Rickard Stark, Lyanna’s father, even forgave her for leaving home, since the notices she received were so glowing it eclipsed the shame of a lord’s daughter in the arts. She and her tutor Rhaegar were considered a fantastic theatrical team, and no one dreamed that the charming, wild singer from a Northern family of good name but somewhat modest means, and the dignified, married Targaryen genius, born from a family that according to legend once ruled Westeros, could ever be more than that.

Until it was clear they were.

As Sansa neared the foyer, she wondered how differently things might have gone that day if Baratheon had asked Targaryen to speak outside before challenging him. If Baratheon hadn’t sought help from the opera’s chief patron, that master tycoon Tywin Lannister. If Baratheon had waited for Sansa’s father to arrive to act as his second rather than impatiently accept Tywin Lannister’s offer of his lackey Gregor Clegane.

If only Lyanna hadn’t tried to make them both see reason and had instead left while she still could. If only Rhaegar’s wife Elia hadn’t shown up in the middle of the conflict with their children, in an attempt like Lyanna’s to make Rhaegar come to his senses.

If only anyone else had been in that part of the opera house. If only anyone had seen Gregor Clegane, that mountain that moved, before in a blind rage he shot the chandelier swinging above. If only the chandelier had been sturdy enough not to fall…if only all the candles hadn’t been lit...the fire spread quickly….

Baratheon was struck in the head in the struggle, and fell unconscious lodged between a pillar and a doorway. This saved him. He was found without a scratch beyond the bump on his head and the soot covering him.

The five corpses were burnt beyond recognition. The officials were finally able to identify Rhaegar, Lyanna, Elia, and the children only when Robert came to and he could think straight enough through the fog of his grief-induced brief madness to identify who had been present. There…there might have been someone else there, too…but Baratheon could not remember…his concussion…and there were so many in the opera house running screaming from the flames….

Naturally, everyone assumed the other person he alluded to was Gregor Clegane. A chance witness (name lost to history) saw the Mountain run out of the opera house just as flames started licking the sky.

He was never seen in Westeros again, since he would obviously pay the severest of penalties for his hellacious crime if caught by the authorities. Not even Tywin Lannister’s influence could shield him after the Scandal his act created.

Sansa shuddered and swallowed down the bile the thought of the Scandal always brought to her throat. She was too honest not to privately acknowledge to herself that, yes, lying to her parents about going back to Madame Mordane’s Finishing School while secretly pursuing a singing career in King’s Landing, did, perhaps, echo Lyanna’s rebellious actions over two decades ago. 

Yet…wasn’t it that part of why Sansa was doing this?

Sansa, always the obedient one, the good angel of Winterfell Manor. The one who dutifully followed her mother on her charitable rounds in the village, who always sat at her needlepoint when there were visitors.

Sansa, the boring, insipid damsel, as her sister Arya put it during their last nasty fight. Sansa who couldn’t do anything brave and daring to save her life! Sansa who had no ambition but to marry and make babies and read her stupid gothic romances and sit tra-la-la-ing at her piano all night!

At that, Sansa lost her temper and screamed at little Arya Horseface her deepest secret. She _did_ have an ambition, an ambition so great it consumed her: to sing opera in King’s Landing!  
She felt a brief flash of triumph as Arya’s face went slack, her eyes round and wide. Sansa quickly realized that this had little to do with Sansa’s words. Arya was staring at something behind her. Sansa turned and the triumph sunk like a stone in her stomach.

Their father stood there. His eyes were gray pools of misery. He’d heard everything.

He and her mother spoke in very quiet, measured tones as they sat her down after telling Arya and Bran to play outside. She was glad Robb was away at university. She couldn’t stand him weighing in on all this as well. 

Ned, the misery never leaving his eyes, told her that he regretted now letting Old Nan teach her singing – yes, he’d been aware of the continued lessons, beyond those rudimentary ones she taught them when they were young. Sansa should have known better than to let an old woman teach her who might not have her wits about her, and might mistake Sansa for her prize pupil, Lyanna.

“But Old Nan _does_ have her wits about her, Father!” Sansa interrupted. “She does! Oh, she tells me the most fantastical stories.” Her face was dreamy. Old Nan was a retired governess of Winterfell Manor who had stuck with the Stark family through the economic downturn in the last Great Winter. She’d been an able and sharp governess in her time, but she was best at teaching singing, having once nurtured young hopes herself before her family’s poor needs dictated a life of servitude.

To reward her for her devotion to their family, the Starks let her a cottage of her own on their lands, a grand piano its greatest possession. This is where the Stark children would run to for stories of the First Men, of ghosts, of the fall of Valyria, of the destruction of the Iron Throne (what a romantic tale!). 

This is where Old Nan first noticed Sansa’s talent when she’d make the children stand and sing scales. The boys sang like hollowed out trees swaying in the wind, and Arya like a rusty hinge.

But Nan recognized eight-year-old Sansa’s voice right away.

And so her brothers and four-year-old Arya got their stories about the last hero, the ice dragon, and the children of the forest.  
Sansa got the story of the Angel of Music.

“The Angel only visits once or twice in a generation. The Angel takes the voice of one who works hard at her craft, who has the true soul of song within her, and teaches that voice to grow. And when He visits….” A light appeared in the old woman’s eyes that made her look like a child of the forest herself. “Oh, my child, those he visits are blessed with the Angel’s voice. True, true genius.”

Little Sansa was hopelessly enthralled. “How about you, Nan? Has the Angel ever visited you?”

The light dimmed and the old woman bat her wrinkled eyelids rapidly. She smiled crookedly at the young girl. She took her wrist and squeezed it reassuringly. “No, my dear. The Angel has not. I am meant to teach others the gifts they need in case the Angel decides to visit them. And you, my dear. You will definitely be visited, but if and only if you continue to practice! Now, your scales again.”

How could Sansa ever express how much singing meant to her? That when she closed her eyes and let the music take her away, she already felt half-possessed by an angel?

Sansa could not explain the parts about the Angel to her mother and father, of course. Not, obviously, that she still believed in any Northern Angel of Music. Of course not. But….

Still, even without bringing up the Angel, her parents refused to take her seriously. “I agree with your father, Sansa,” Catelyn Stark told her in gentler tones. “That’s why we’re sending you back early to Madame Mordane’s. I’m sure Mr. Poole won’t mind sending Jeyne back as well, so you won’t be lonely before the term starts.”

“But Nan says my voice is so good I could sing in an opera! She did! And I just read in the paper that they’ll be auditioning soon for a new understudy for Cersei Lannister! _Cersei Lannister_ , the diva! Mother, you know Lord Baelish, the owner of the opera house. If you could just write to him that” –

 _“Sansa.”_ She almost jumped. She’d never heard her father speak in such a sharp tone. He was standing over her, and she was almost frightened by the anger in his eyes, if it weren’t for the deep sadness and fear there as well. “We are not discussing this further. Our minds are made up.”

Seeing the tears in her blue eyes – so like her mother’s – his own softened and he sat beside her, took her hand in his. “Little one. Don’t worry so. I’m not angry with you or Old Nan. I shan’t scold her or anything like that.” He pat her cheek and pinched her chin like he used to do when she was a child…like he still did, though he never did with Arya or the boys. She had a doleful realization: of all the five Stark children, Sansa was the one most treated like a child. She, the second eldest.

She saw suddenly quite clearly that her father had a way of speaking to the others as though they were little adults, as if he was quite intent on understanding and reasoning with them. She recalled now many times he’d walk with Arya in a field, hands behind his back, as she prattled on about hunting or riding or whatever else was on her wild mind. His smile of sympathy was so warm and proud…like he gave to Robb and Bran and even baby Rickon….

Had _she_ ever received that smile?

Of course, everyone who thought Sansa couldn’t hear said Ned was partial to his youngest girl because she was so much like Lyanna in spirit and even in looks, before Lyanna had become a beauty.

Sansa, with her auburn hair, blue eyes, and classical beauty inherited from her mother, looked nothing like Lyanna. Her eagerness to please and her innate courtesy could not have been further from Lyanna as well.

As her father and mother tried to comfort her now like she was a three-year-old throwing a tantrum, Sansa sullenly thought to herself that they would never treat her seriously, never respect her, because she was such an agonizingly, stupefyingly –

“…good girl, Sansa,” her father was saying. “You’re a good, obedient girl and I know this little desire of yours will pass.” He kissed her on top of her head. “I can always count on my little Sansa to stay out of trouble.”

Looking back, that was it, she believed. The moment where she was determined to shut up Arya, and…and…show her parents that she was capable of being as strong and rebellious as her aunt…but without making the same mistakes! She’d show them!

And so as she and Jeyne boarded the train out of Winterfell to Barrowton and Madame Mordane, the two girls made their plans. Jeyne was to continue on to Barrowton, but Sansa would depart on the next stop and board a train to King’s Landing. Jeyne would tell Madame Mordane that Sansa’s parents had changed their minds, and she’d intercept any letters from her parents and send them along to Sansa, and vice-versa. Jeyne was giddy with the idea of taking part in such an outlandish adventure.

Before leaving Winterfell, Sansa acted the perfect contrite little lady (earning more mocking words from little Miss Arya Underfoot). And so her mother had no reason to suspect her when Sansa asked if she could look in Lady Catelyn’s room for some cloth for a new dress. Sansa flipped quickly through her mother’s address book and found Lord Baelish’s.

She hadn’t waited for a reply to her letter. She’d been very careful not to presume too much on his relationship fostered with her mother when he was a child and his father traveled for work, but if he could only see it in him to secure her an audition for Mrs. Baratheon’s understudy, well…?

Her answer awaited her at King’s Landing Station. He’d sent a carriage with instructions to first meet with the managers and then with him. He would secure her accommodations.

So here she was!

…Wait, where was she?

Sansa awakened from her musings to find herself in the theater’s immense, glittering foyer. The grand foyer was to Sansa’s mind the most beautiful place she’d ever been in. The pillars and low-hanging chandeliers were golden and the ceiling was covered in a beautiful fresco depicting the Seven interlocked with each other throughout history. Yet she could scarcely take in the glorious sight as panic set in.

She looked down dumbly at the polite but hasty note Lord Baelish had left waiting for her at the station. The manager’s office…he…he didn’t say _where_ the office was. She got to the end of the hall, which branched off into two different directions. She wavered between the two. Oh, _why_ didn’t she ask one of the porters she’d seen as she walked up the staircase? Just like a child, she’d been too open-mouthed staring at the architecture and thinking about the past to attend to the present like she should. Now there was no one around! She’d just assumed there would be signs!

 _It’s not a depot, idiot, with arrows telling you where to go,_ she scolded herself, ears red. _Sophisticated people just know._

She sucked in a brave breath and prepared to imitate one such of these sophisticated people and guess when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. In her shock, she spun around at a very unsophisticated speed.

“Do I frighten you so much, girl?” The low rumble of a voice asked her.

Indeed, Sansa had never expected her first encounter at the opera house to be with someone like _this._

She trembled.

He was one of the largest men she’d ever seen; if not seven feet tall, somewhere in that near neighborhood. He was obviously some sort of workman. He wore no jacket and his shirt sleeves were rolled up on his massively muscled arms. He had on a brown workman’s vest and thick boots, and his dark cap hid lank hair tied in a knot in back.  
His face was his most arresting feature. Half consisted of a thick dark eyebrow drawn downward over a strong nose and an equally strong jaw, with stubble giving way to a beard. 

The other half of his face was a twisted mass of burn scars, melting into his beard.

Sansa inwardly quavered at the sight, coming at the end of her thoughts of Lyanna and the Scandal, and here in the opera house, no less.

And yet his eyes: they were…coolly appraising her, mocking her, yet…they were not cold or mean eyes.

They were very sad, guarded eyes. There was warmth there, somehow.

She was at a loss to explain it.

When Sansa failed to answer him right away, this man continued. “Or if it’s not me, are you frightened by the fact you obviously don’t know where the hell you are, _Miss Stark?”_ He pronounced her name with a mocking lilt.

She wasn’t sure whether she should be more offended by his tone or his language. She certainly wasn’t about to quibble with such a man, however!

Wait, how did he know who she was?

She at last found her voice. Beyond everything, Sansa _was_ a lady, and proud of it. She spoke to this man with courtesy. “Forgive me, sir. You surprised me. Yes, I am Sansa Stark, and…yes, I am turned around a bit. How…if you don’t mind my asking, sir…how do you know who I am?”

He raised his good eyebrow at her, and she couldn’t tell if he was impressed or merely somewhat taken aback by her good manners. He snorted a laugh, like a bear’s deep growl. “You might act the perfect lady, miss, but you don’t exactly look like a Southerner.”

Sansa felt her ears burn crimson again. She couldn’t help but look down at her quiet gray dress, plain blue coat, and thick snow boots. Her outfit certainly wasn’t the height of fashion. But she couldn’t put on anything nicer, as she was meant to go to Madame Mordane’s, and her parents would have noticed something right away if she put on one of the dresses she’d ordered from the Reach! And her hair, she knew her hair beneath her painfully country-like straw hat wasn’t up in curls like in all the fashion magazines, but was instead pulled away from her face but down in back. 

Still, a gentleman would never have pointed something out like that! Much better if he’d said that he’d heard a pretty lady was arriving or something. No, that would have been too forward, of course. But something gallant in that vein! 

“Ruffled your feathers, didn’t I?” He chuckled. He was leaning against the wall now, appraising her again with arms crossed. 

What a horrid man! She refused to acknowledge the insult, straightening once more. “I take it you were expecting me, then?” 

He laughed a bit again, in a rasping voice that didn’t sound like it laughed much. “Aye, that I was, girl. I was sent out to fetch the little lady and take her straight away to the managers’ office.” An ungentlemanly big hand grabbed her arm, steering her to the right. “Come along.”

Suddenly too tongue-tied to object to him manhandling her so, Sansa dumbly followed. 

She gave the man this: once he saw her struggle to keep up while holding onto her large piece of luggage, something in his cheek twitched wryly and he took it from her. “Here, girl, you’ll fall over if you carry that thing yourself.” His other hand never let go of her arm. He’s like a jailer dragging a prisoner to his cell, she thought peevishly.

Still, Sansa never forgot her manners. “Thank you very much, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’.” He looked down speculatively at the carpet bag. “What all do you have in here, girl? You rob a department store on your way over?”

She was gob-smacked at how rude and – yes – nosy this large scarred stranger was proving at every turn! “No, sir, they were all closed. I had to settle for what I could find in the street.” She could have bitten her tongue at her sass. How many times had her mother reminded Arya to follow Sansa’s example, of never answering a discourtesy with a similar one? Yet her first time away from home outside of school, and here she was ruder than her sister ever was!

This stranger didn’t seem to mind, merely raised that eyebrow again with a…well, not precisely friendly, but a pleasantly surprised gleam in his eye as he barked another rough laugh.

Sansa hastened to add, “Just my belongings, sir. The things I need for my accommodations. It’s not too heavy, is it?” She suddenly asked concerned, reaching a hand out to take it. She didn’t want to impose on anyone.

Another new look in those eyes of his: something softer, with still that hint of surprise. “Nothing I can’t handle, girl.” He frowned as he pushed open a door down a less glamorous and plainer corridor. “Your belongings? Where are you staying, girl? You couldn’t leave the bag there?”

Sansa blushed. Apparently this stranger wasn’t apprised of everything. “Er, no, sir. See, I don’t quite know where I’m staying yet.”

He looked at her sharply and her blush deepened. He must think her such a wanton! Coming to King’s Landing without a place to stay! He stopped walking and looked her over, once. “So you do have some of the wild North to you after all,” he said in a low voice, as if to himself. His look darkened. “Be careful, miss. Little birds shouldn’t leap blindly out of their nests.” He continued charging down the hallway, Sansa at his heels.

He was so difficult to read. Was he still mocking her, or was he genuinely concerned? The dark, glum look on his face as he stared ahead of him certainly did not speak to the former.  
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I don’t believe I ever caught your name.”

“For the last bloody time, girl, don’t call me ‘sir’.” That mocking twist was back to his face as he said, “I’m only the head stagehand around these parts, after all. Among other things.” Sansa did not think it possible, but his look went even blacker at that last part. “People call me the Hound.”

Sansa was perplexed. “But why?” 

He smirked as they took a left at the end of the hall. “My family’s run the kennels on the Lannister estate out at Casterly Rock for the past couple of generations. Me, I don’t mind it. I like me a good hound. Better than people for most things, including honesty. A hound will die for you but never lie to you.”

 _So, he’s here from the Lannisters,_ Sansa thought. _Why does that whole part about the kennel sound vaguely familiar? Something in connection with the Scandal?_

She looked around and took in the fact that they were in a sort of dark hallway coated with cobwebs. “Where are we?”

“Shortcut,” he answered. Another nasty laugh. “Away from the nicer corridors. They don’t like my kind in there too often. Bit risky going to the grand foyer, but I figured you’d be lost.”  
She suddenly felt sorry for him. “Well, I’m very thankful for your timely intervention, sir.”

He was merely annoyed. “Oh for – girl, what did I tell you” –

Sansa was annoyed, too. “Yes, yes. I’m not to call you ‘sir’. But I simply can’t call you Hound! That’s not right. What’s your true name?”

“My true name’s not one to flaunt, girl.”

Another voice suddenly spoke. “It’s Clegane!” Sansa looked to her left, her blood running cold at that name. A rather fat but harmless-looking fellow stood there in clothes that were in worse condition than her present companion’s. He swayed up to her, his face blank and his breath stinking.

Sansa had seen enough of the rowdy villagers of Winterfell at festivals to easily identify the man as drunk.

Well, that and the bottle he carried. 

The man pointed to the now quite peeved head stagehand. “His name’s Clegane, miss.”

“Would you get out of here, Hollard?” Clegane snapped. “Go on, sober yourself up and then help Trant with the backdrops, go on.”

Hollard looked kindly and curiously at Sansa. “You new here, miss?”

“I said go on!”  
Sansa bristled at Clegane’s strong tone, and so she answered Hollard politely. “Yes I am, Mr. Hollard. Thank you.”

A red patch appeared on the drunkard’s cheek, and he smiled weakly. “Well, you’re a sweet little thing.” He unsteadily lift his hand and wagged his finger. “Listen here, miss. Watch out for the Phantom. The Phantom of the Opera. He’s the devil himself, you know.”

Sansa frowned, but before she could inquire further, Clegane’s hand was around the man’s shirt collar. “For the last fucking time, Hollard, shut your damn fool mouth and go back to work.” Sansa’s mouth went slack at his language. He pushed him away.

Hollard struggled to keep his balance but then retreated like a whipped dog. He called over his shoulder again, “Watch out for the ghost, miss! That Phantom’s the devil himself!” 

He was gone into the back.

Sansa stared up at Clegane. “Phantom? What is he talking about?”

“Never mind, girl. Just a stupid superstition. Backstage gossip is all.”

Sansa Stark was a lady, and a lady never acknowledged gossip, or was interested in superstitions like a child.

Then again.

Then again, if Sansa was to work here, she should know what goes on.

“Do tell, sir – I mean, Mr. Clegane.” A quiet beat. “Your name is really Clegane?” _That’s right, Gregor Clegane’s grandfather owned a kennel on the Lannister property…._

He suddenly whirled around on her, eyes wide and frightening. “Aye, it is. Want to make something of it?”

He loomed over her, breathing heavily. His face held barely contained wild fury.

Sansa’s first inclination was to reply quickly _nothing no nothing at all no sir._ But his fury shot through her and roused some warrior within herself. “Should I?” She heard herself ask.

Sansa guessed this Clegane fellow was very rarely surprised, so the fact she appeared to constantly bring that out in him today irritated him. He gave her another once-over. Then one more barking laugh (another rarity, she guessed). “Here and there you show signs of spirit, girl,” he said as some sort of grudging compliment. He straightened and relaxed his posture. “The Clegane you’re thinking of is my older brother.” He spat angrily at the mention of Gregor. “And I ain’t my brother.” His very expression spoke his conviction.

Sansa felt herself relax as well. He gestured with his head out another doorway. “Come on.”

She hurried after him. “You were telling me about the Phantom, Mr. Clegane.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

All right. Sansa was curious, she would admit. “Oh, please. I want to know all I can about the opera house. Do tell! Do people really think it’s haunted?”

“Aye, because people are stupid. They think some masked figure lives underground and kills people if the operas aren’t done the way he likes. Some say he’s a ghost, some a devil, others just a madman. But forget that shite, girl.”

Sansa felt both a thrill and a chill. She hoped no one gossiped about her aunt’s ghost. “You don’t believe it, Mr. Clegane?” Her tone was lightly teasing.

Another wry twist in his burnt cheek. “There are worse things to fear in life than ghosts, miss.” He stopped in front of a door. “Here you are.”

Sansa had been so distracted she didn’t realize they’d left behind the dark corridors and were now in front of a row of offices on plush red carpeting. “This is the manager’s office?”

“Aye. Just knock and head in. You’ll be all right, girl.”

There was an undercurrent of warmth to his words. He’d sensed her anxiety.

And so it was with grateful, genuine blue eyes that she turned and smiled at him. “Thank you so much, Mr. Clegane.” She curtseyed, once.

He looked fit for another mocking laugh, but then his face turned serious and he grabbed her arm again. “Look here,” he said in a rough quick voice. “This Phantom shit. Don’t talk about it much, do you hear? Don’t…don’t take part in any gossip. Right?”

Sansa tilted her head, lost. He suddenly sounded so awkward. “What do you mean? You said-- ”

He compressed his lips, impatient. “Never mind. Just do as I say. And….” His lips were a very tight line now and he darted an almost anxious glance at the door beside them. His voice lowered, and she trembled involuntarily at the rumbling timbre that she felt in her very chest when he spoke. “…If ever you feel yourself in danger, girl, remember this: put your hand to the level of your eyes.”

Sansa was frightened now. _So was this opera ghost real after all?_ “Hand to the level of my eyes? What in the name of….?”

“Remember that, girl,” He said harshly. He turned and stalked off after setting her carpet bag down. He darted a quick glance at her behind his broad shoulder, broader than any she had ever seen. He disappeared around a corner.

Now that he was gone and she didn’t have his warm hand on her or his warm voice in her ear, she felt cold, alone. All she had for company were his chilling parting words. 

She rubbed her arms, looking all around her. _The Phantom of the Opera._

Swallowing, she turned and knocked.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come in,” a voice called from inside.

Sansa entered. The office was medium sized and nicely but sparsely furnished. At the desk was an overweight man in a well-tailored and expensive-looking outfit. He was absolutely bald.  
He glanced up from his writings with glittering, intelligent eyes. He stood at once and with marked courtesy approached her. His steps were surprisingly silent and quick given his girth.

“My dear Miss Stark, I believe,” He took her hand in his. His voice was like the soft hum of a bee, full of honey as he inclined his head. His cheeks were lightly powdered. “Won’t you please sit down, my dear girl?” He stretched his hand out to the seat in front of his desk.

He sat her down and then bowed again. “I am Varys, manager here. I am at your service.” His exquisite manners were oddly jarring coming straight from Mr. Clegane. Compared to the head stagehand, this man’s attentions seemed…oddly false and insinuating.

She shook the thought away. Nonsense. This man is a gentleman, and very sympathetic, obviously.

He was at his desk again. “I take it you had a pleasant journey here?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Varys. I…I do apologize I couldn’t apply for a position here earlier. Um, circumstances, um, dictated it.” She decided ‘demanded’ would be overdramatic. Nonetheless, she sounded to herself like a simpleton.

Ever a gentleman, Varys ignored her awkwardness with ease. “Nonsense, my dear. Lord Baelish knows your dear mother and what an honorable family you come from. He is sure you will do splendidly here. You found our offices all right?”

“Mr. Clegane showed me.”

Sansa didn’t notice the slight shadow in Varys’s eyes. “Sandor Clegane showed you here? The Hound?” He masterfully kept any surprise out of his voice.

_Sandor. His first name’s Sandor._ “Yes.”

“Hm. I was unaware Lord Baelish would have him lead you here. The Hound – er, Mr. Clegane is a priceless employee, but his manners are admittedly a bit gruff. I hope he did not shock you too much? Particularly in his appearance?”

Sansa felt oddly rankled by the insinuation, though she had indeed felt nothing but shock, at first. She felt now almost…protective. “Oh, no. He was quite helpful.”

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “Well, there you are, anyhow.” Another ingratiating smile and Sandor Clegane was dismissed from memory. “I’m afraid my associate is running a bit late, my dear. Once he arrives, we will more thoroughly discuss your audition.” The blood rushed to Sansa’s head. So she _would_ audition! Truly! That was of course what she’d come to the opera house for, but she’d no idea if they’d truly let her, or would want her for a spot in the chorus instead.

She bit her bottom lip giddily, and Varys couldn’t lie to himself that she was a charming thing in her excitement.

Woe for her.

Varys leaned back in his chair, arms folded on his stomach and fingers tented. “You are a very pretty young lady, if you do not mind my saying so, Miss Stark.” _Very plainly dressed, however,_ he mused. _She’s every inch the schoolgirl. With Baelish’s…patronage, that certainly won’t last long._ “You should be wary, my dear, that you don’t stir our prima donna’s jealousy.” His tone was light and playful. The look in his eyes wasn’t.

Sansa ignored it. “I’m sure a great beauty like Mrs. Baratheon need not resent my looks”—

“Ah!” Varys stopped her, holding up a finger. “Whatever you do, sweet girl, do not refer to her by her married name. Always, always use her unmarried, professional name: ‘Ms. Lannister’. To be honest, the lady had no great fondness for her late husband, loathe as I am to speak so to the daughter of his dearest friend. They were…ill-suited. She does not like to be reminded of him.”

Sansa bowed her head. She knew that, of course. How could she not when she’d devoted her whole life to reading the gossip columns in the papers, of how Cersei and Robert Baratheon were constantly at each other's throats during their marriage, until his heart failed him three years past? Sansa remembered how empty her father’s face went when he saw the announcement of his death in the papers. Catelyn had quietly enquired if they should go to King’s Landing for the funeral. “No,” had been his clipped response. He’d put the paper away and never spoke of his friend again.

“Of course the feeling was more than mutual,” Varys was saying. “He never had any love for her. He never got over your aunt, poor man.”

Sansa was shocked he’d mention her aunt to her so blatantly, and in such context! His manners might be far more polished, but Mr. Varys was just as blunt as Mr. Clegane in his own way.

“I see,” Sansa said quietly.

“Now, don’t worry, my dear. Not many people are around now who remember the Scandal. I’m one of the very few. I was Rhaegar Targaryen’s valet.” Sansa’s mouth dropped open again, ever so unladylike. 

“Were you?” She breathed.

He inclined his head. “A fact which Ms. Lannister remembers very well, and likes to remind me of with her ‘cool, haughty gaze’, as a novelist might say. She detested your aunt. Cersei is a good singer, but your aunt…your aunt was on another plane entirely. It was a constant struggle to know who would play the leading lady each season: she with the talent, or she with the influential father.” A small, pleasant smile. “Your aunt’s untimely death answered that question for good.”

Sansa shivered, fighting her repugnance. She suddenly wished her mother was here.

“But tell me!” He said, almost chipper now. “What do you make of our great opera house?” He spread his hand out over his office, eyes to the ceiling, as if laying the whole house before her for inspection.

Sansa was glad she could finally join in the conversation in full. “It’s all so much more beautiful than I ever dreamed, Mr. Varys.” She shifted forward in her seat, her eyes sparkling. 

Varys felt a painful twist in his heart. Such unsullied enthusiasm….

“It’s like a palace! I’ll bet the Red Keep where the council sits isn’t as nice!” A mischievous fire appeared in her eyes, a spark seen mostly in Arya’s eyes but once in a while peeked out of her older sister’s eyes, too. “And I’m very excited about the opera Phantom.”

Varys registered no surprise, but no great humor, either. “I see. You’ve heard about him. The Hound telling tales?”

Sansa felt a stab of fear for Sandor. Damn her tongue! “Oh, no, no, no! In fact, he told me to never mind the gossip. I…heard some people talking about it as we passed by.” She didn’t want to get this Hollard person in trouble, either. She shrugged, trying to look casual. “It’s…all a little silly, isn’t it?”

His placid gaze never altered as he answered, “Possibly. But I wouldn’t talk about him much or explore this place unaccompanied if I were you, my dear.”

His words echoed Sandor’s so much that she was now completely intrigued. As the air grew thick between them, the door opened and Sansa turned.

And looked down.

“Hello,” said the shortest man she had ever seen. A dwarf.

There was a wry, tipsy look about him as he tipped his already askew top hat at her. He winked. He was dressed very elegantly. As he passed her by, Sansa caught a heavy whiff of perfume that didn’t smell like it belonged to a man. 

He seated himself in a chair near a cart full of drinks. Narrowing his eyes at the coat hook, he hurled his hat there and raised his firsts triumphantly when it landed where aimed.

“The gods are with me today,” He announced. He leaned over to the cart and poured himself a drink.

“This is Mr. Tyrion Lannister,” Varys explained in his pleasant voice. _Cersei Lannister’s brother! Is this opera house crawling with Lannister people?_ “My fellow manager. He is drunk.”

“No!” Tyrion corrected him. _“Getting_ drunk. There is a difference, Varys.” He turned his attention to the dumbfounded Sansa, studying her over his glass. “Have you offered our pretty guest libations, Varys?”

“I have been remiss. Would you care for a drink, Miss Stark?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” She felt so dull, slow, plain.

This wasn’t helped by Tyrion’s laughter. “You look like you came straight from the convent. Who is this again?” He asked Varys.

Varys maintained his even expression as he answered, “As I just said and as we discussed this morning, Tyrion, this is Sansa Stark. From Winterfell. Up North. In Westeros. Which is the country we live in.”

“Ah, that’s right! Another Stark girl in the opera house! This should be fun!” Sansa felt her temper rising, but before she could say anything, Tyrion suddenly recalled something and sat up straighter. “Wait a minute!” He pointed at her, almost accusingly. “I know your brother!”

Sansa blinked, surprised. “Robb?”

“No, no, not him. Jon.”

“…Oh. My _half_ -brother,” she said. Her tone was as frigid and cold as the Northern winds.

Tyrion Lannister was _not_ a gentleman.

When Ned returned from King’s Landing after almost a year looking for his sister and investigating her death, he returned with a surprise for his young Tully bride:

A bastard boy. Jon Snow.

Sansa knew Jon was the one great heartbreak of her mother’s life. Most wealthy men would pay someone to look after the bastard and then send him to school. They would pretend the child was a nephew from a dead sibling.

But Ned Stark raised Jon with them, never lying about who he was. He was brought up as one of their own, but always a bit outside, as well.

His addition to the family so soon after Lyanna’s death compounded the Scandal. Many believe the weight of dishonor to the Stark name was what finally killed old Rickard Stark, Ned and Lyanna’s father. Some wondered if Catelyn would even seek a divorce, but she never did.

Often were the times when Sansa would have liked to treat Jon as she did Robb, Bran, and Rickon. As her true brother. But just as often were the times when Sansa would be playing with Jon, she the princess and he the knight come to rescue her from Arya the dragon, when Sansa would chance looking up to the window. There she’d see her mother. Catelyn stood watching them, to the naked eye as proud and honorable as ever, but her daughter could see the pain in her blue eyes.

And so Sansa learned to call Jon her half-brother. She was never cruel to Jon; she still played with him, still gave him advice about girls. But in Jon’s dark gray eyes, Sansa could see he noticed the slight difference, the distance.

Sansa thought of this now with a pang. She hadn’t seen Jon in three years, since he left for the army.

“Where did you meet him?” She asked Tyrion quietly.

“He was on his way to his regiment with a few other soldiers, if I recall correctly. I was meeting with some Northern investors of Father’s at an inn when his squadron came in. Well, a drinking match ensued, which your brother stayed out of. That’s why he was able to fight off the rowdiest recruit who did not take kindly to a rich dwarf out-drinking him. I probably owe my life to your bastard brother.”

He seemed to finally notice her cold glare. She looked just like one of those icy Others his governess used to tell him about to scare him as a child.  
Half-facetiously, half-genuinely, he said, “I hope I haven’t offended you, miss.”

The naïve and sweet-tempered child seemed vanished. The proud beauty who sat with ramrod straightness in her chair was more wolf than dove. “Not at all, sir,” she said with quiet dignity. “I love my brother. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”  
   
Varys and Tyrion both noted she’d dropped the “half”.

Varys skillfully steered the conversation back to her audition for understudy. Secretly, Tyrion was gleeful that Cersei would have to face a Stark girl again. By god, wouldn’t it be fantastic if this girl could upstage his sister as her aunt once did? Unlikely. Then again, this girl had more steel in her than he’d originally surmised….

“…And so we’ll see you in our amphitheater at the end of the week for the audition.” Varys stood. “I believe that is all; do you have anything else to add, Tyrion?”

He raised a glass to her. “Nothing but my sincerest admiration for the lady. It takes courage to make the leap you have, my dear. I honestly salute you.”

While Sansa was a bit befuddled about what she considered his hyperbole, she was nevertheless flattered. Her manner softened a bit to him. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, both.”

“Someone will see to you outside, my dear. Good night,” Varys bowed again.

Sansa curtseyed and then was gone.

“Well,” Varys said, turning to Tyrion. “An interesting turn of events.”

“Maybe,” Tyrion said, pouring himself another drink. “Could be quite embarrassing if the girl can’t sing.”

“Oh, I’m sure our good Lord Baelish will find a place for her regardless.”

“Gods pity the poor girl,” Tyrion said. He shuddered at the thought of his employer in name, Lord Baelish. Of course, Littlefinger truly worked at the behest of Tyrion’s father, a ruthless businessman who controlled the majority of such operations in the country – mostly illegally. 

Still, Tywin Lannister would not begrudge Petyr Baelish his fun with the child of his lost love.

So yes, may the gods pity poor innocent Sansa Stark.

“By the way,” Varys said, without looking up from a note he’d started writing. “It is time now to pay _him_.”

Varys didn’t even flinch when Tyrion slammed down his drink, yet he could hear the anger in Tyrion’s tight voice. “Varys, I’m getting awfully sick of spending the opera’s precarious funds on someone I don’t know and someone I’ve never seen. Varys?”

Varys did not acknowledge him.

Tyrion squeezed his fists so tightly he felt the fingernails leave marks on his palms. “Varys, do you hear me? Father put me in this position, he obviously intended me to know a little of what goes on here. Who the hells is this ‘Phantom’ and why are we beholden to pay him?”

Eyes still on his papers, Varys’s voice was nonetheless quite serious. “Believe me, my dear Tyrion. You will stay far happier not knowing.”


	3. Chapter 3

After Sansa closed the office door behind her, she turned and gasped. “You’re back!”

“Aye, I’m back,” Sandor chuckled, reclining against the door frame. “Lucky you.” He leaned in, smirking nastily. “Had enough talking about your half-brother and making nice with the Imp?”

Sansa’s brows came down violently. “You eavesdropped!”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Not my fault I came back in time for the best bits.”

Sansa wasn’t sure where she should go, but anywhere was better than spending one more second with this man. The instant she moved off, however, his hand was on her arm. Its heat burned her like a brand.

“Don’t fly away so fast, little bird.”

“Let go of me!”

“Can’t. I’ve been instructed to give you a quick tour of the place, then to introduce you to _him._ ” His look was ominous, dark.

Sansa swallowed hard. She did not resist when he led her away.  
________________________________________

Sandor didn’t know what to make of this little Northern girl thrust in his care.

How, for example, had they started this tour with him dragging the frightened girl by her arm, but were ending it now with her hand tucked absently in his elbow as she gazed with childlike wonder at the sights around her?

They’d just made a circle of the amphitheater. She’d traced the curved banisters of the box seats as if they were made from fucking exotic dragonglass. He’d not taken her onstage, but her eyes drank in the space tenderly. 

Although he could tell proper ladylike blood flowed through her very veins, it wasn’t a very ladylike posture she’d adopted when she’d tilted her head far back to take in the large golden chandelier. 

She was enchanted and – dammit – enchanting.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to dissipate the feeling. “Come on,” he said. He led her toward the exit.

She blinked her big blue eyes once, like someone waking up. “Oh? Is it time to go?”

“Yes, come on.” He pulled her with her hand still tucked into his elbow, pulled not too hard.

“Well, thank you very much for the tour. It’s…it’s been lovely, lovely.”

He snorted at her words. _Lovely, lovely._ “You’re like one of these pretty little singing birds from the Summer Isle, aren’t you? Pretty little bird singing all the pretty little words your governess taught you.”

The shocked look she gave him was indeed very bird-like. She straightened herself, affecting dignity. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hopefully this will be a nice big cage for you to sing in, little bird.” He couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. The soft, grave innocence in this girl…this place would leech it out of her. 

Could have knocked him down when he first saw her face. Even the youngest kid in the children’s ballet didn’t possess such a fresh face of innocence. Not a touch of makeup on her, and with that long thick auburn hair hanging down, she looked like one of those old paintings in books about fairytales.

He couldn’t describe, even to himself, how drawn he was to that look of hers. She wasn’t as beautiful as Cersei Lannister in the conventional way yet, but Sandor would rather look at this girl than Cersei. The stiff perfection of the diva’s face, the sour expression, left Sandor cold (not that he blamed the woman herself as much as other people might – Sandor knew it was probably no picnic married all those years to that fat whoring fuck. Take a toll on anyone’s disposition).

And while there was nothing stiff or set in the little bird’s beauty, there was a wintry distance to her, for all her warmth and kind attentions. She was so…Northern.

Not that she had the wild, dark looks or habits people associated with the North. No, looks-wise she had what he heard was the Tully coloring and build. He meant…something about her remote air. Not remote like unfriendly, far from it…fuck, he couldn’t describe it. It was very _Northern._

Or so Sandor guessed. He’d traveled Westeros a bit in his stint in the military, but mostly he’d been consigned to carrying out Lannister’s wishes in the backstreets of the Westerlands and then here in King’s Landing. He’d never really gotten that far North.

Either way, this girl really did seem like she’d just stepped out of a children’s book of fairytales.

He wanted to shake the stars out of her eyes as she looked over the place so happily. Tell her what she was in for.

But _he_ wouldn’t let him.

They were in front of his door now, in an area of the opera house remote from the rest and ever more elegant. Sandor knocked. “The Stark girl, sir,” He called.

Sandor was surprised but not shocked that Baelish answered the door himself. _Already trying to impress her._ Why a flame of rage at the thought, he did not know.

_So eager to impress her, yet has a dog like me drag her around all day. Probably figured anybody would look better after me._

Baelish’s dark salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his mustache neatly trimmed. His suit was smart and so neatly pressed it made Sandor nauseous.

“Sansa,” he said, voice thick and warm. _Hoping to disarm her with familiarity. Like he was her damned uncle or something._ Baelish’s green eyes ran over her tall form, up and down, from her face to her feet. He took her hand and squeezed it. Somehow the fucker was able to conjure up tears into his kindly eyes. “You have your dear mother’s look.” The fucker actually kissed her hand.

Sandor shot a glance at the bird to see how she was taking it. She looked gracious but uncomfortable, and turned her head slightly away – probably from that horrible mint scent Littlefinger always wore, Sandor imagined. And the bastard had obviously overdone it today.

“Now don’t you worry about a thing, my dear,” Littlefinger said, continuing his front of avuncular good will. “I’ll look after you as though you were my own.”

Sandor felt sick at the hidden double meaning.

Sansa smiled wanly. “Thank you, Lord Baelish. I’m so happy to meet you.” The enthusiasm from moments before seemed slightly tempered now.

Baelish ushered her in solicitously, then started to close the door on Sandor.

He leaned out before shutting, speaking close to Sandor’s ear. “Go to Varys now. It is time to collect _the salary_ ,” he said in a low voice heavy with meaning.

Sandor cast a wary glance over Baelish’s shoulder to Sansa. She looked back at him with eyes so wide he wanted to push Baelish away and sling her over his shoulder.

Instead he merely stood there as the door closed shut.  
________________________________________

“Sit down, Sansa, sit down.” Lord Baelish pulled out a chair for her.

Echoing her movements from before with Varys, Sansa did as she was asked and waited for Petyr to take a seat behind his large ornate desk.

However, Petyr opted to take his seat at the desks’ edge, perched there right in front of her, his crossed leg brushing her skirt.

There was something about the way his eyes so slowly raked over her that made her skin crawl.

 _This is Mother’s friend, now. You’re safe,_ she repeated to herself.

He spoke of the lady. “It really is astonishing how much you favor Catelyn. Absolutely astonishing!” He tilted his head, and she could feel his sly eyes bore into her. “Your hair is a bit lighter. And your features are even more refined if it were possible, even lovelier!”

Sansa realized dimly that maybe she should feel flattered by his attentions. Yet she couldn’t help comparing his tones to those Robb used when looking over a new horse.  
She felt that she herself was not important here, just the ways in which she was identical or not to her mother.

He affected now a sort of rueful, fondly mocking tone. “Did you know I once proposed to your mother? Oh, I was so young then, so brash! Ha, ha! She was very kind to me, of course, and let me down gently. You see, she was engaged to your uncle then, Brandon Stark.” 

Sansa knew the story, and her toes curled in her shoes in second-hand embarrassment. She didn’t want him to continue, but continue he did. “Such a young hot-head I was that I actually challenged your uncle to a duel! Me! As if we were in some medieval romance! Well, I knew not a thing about shooting, of course, while your uncle won the tournament at every hunting party! Remind me someday to show you the scar I still bear to this day from that ill-fated duel! Ha, ha! No hard feelings, of course. I was as distressed as any when I found out about his hunting accident a month or two later. But, then again, without that your father wouldn’t have visited your mother to express their mutual condolences and you, my dear, might not be here at all!”

His eyes twinkled and Sansa had no idea how to respond.

Luckily, Petyr gave her no chance to make one as he changed the subject. “You can’t imagine, my dear, how thrilled I was to receive your letter. Positively thrilled!”

Sansa felt small and afraid, but she must be honest with him. “Lord Baelish, your generosity to me has been beyond belief. I will never be able to repay your kindness to me, never. And I do apologize for the short notice. But…well…like I explained in the letter, my parents don’t exactly approve….”

He stuck a hand up, halting her. “Say no more, sweetling. Let’s just say I know your mother very well, and she’s a fine, good, splendid woman, but that Tully honor in her!” He whistled. “It can make her a bit…intractable. Well, let’s be frank: stubborn’s the word. Same for your father.”

Sansa did have to laugh at that. She was suddenly so pleased there was someone here who knew and loved her family.

But then he clutched her wrist, and the pleasure turned to faint queasiness. “Why don’t we keep this our little secret, eh?” His ingratiating smile and half-shut eyes reminded her vaguely of some children’s poem about a disappearing cat, leaving behind only its sly grin.

He was looking for something in her eyes, she knew not what. 

He released her wrist and said, “Now. About your accommodations. I have two options for you, sweetling.” He listed the first one in an indifferent voice, as if just to get it out of the way for formality’s sake. “The first one is with Olenna Tyrell, the ballet mistress here. She’s a fantastic teacher, but there’s a reason they call her ‘Dame of Thorns.’ Get her in a prickly mood, and you’re sure to bleed! I must admit her house is a bit crowded: there’s her, her grandson Loras (our lead tenor: a handsome boy, but don’t count on turning his eye; he is immune to the charms of the gentler sex), and her granddaughter Margaery.”

“The contralto?” Sansa interjected eagerly. She’d seen her pictures plastered all over the society pages in the paper. She was always so chic and vivacious! Her dresses!

“Yes,” Petyr said with slight distaste. “A pretty girl, but…I’m afraid….” He leaned forward with his arms on his legs, staring at her frankly. “I’m afraid your dear mother just might find our Margaery a bit on the common side, Sansa.”

She shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t like thinking of her mother as so judgmental. “Oh.”

“But the second option!” He said more brightly. “ _My_ home!” His smile was wider than ever.

Sansa felt her heart drop to her stomach. “ _Your_ home, Lord Baelish?”

“Oh please, call me Petyr. We’re practically family, after all. Yes, my home. For propriety’s sake, of course, I will install a companion for you. Now how about that?”

She was here because of this man. With just a word he could send her back to Winterfell, in shame. He obviously preferred the second option. 

“I will stay with the Tyrells, if you don’t mind, sir.”

His smile remained, but his eyes dimmed.  
“Oh?”

“I appreciate your generous offer, but I’ve already imposed on you so much” –

“My dear, it’s really not an impo”—

“ – And I would love the chance to stay with fellow actors, get from them first-hand what it’s like onstage.”

“Sweetling, you would have ample opportunity for that”—

“ – So it’s settled, then?” Sansa was suddenly standing. She knew not how. “The Tyrells?”

Petyr was never so reminded of Cat as he was right now, looking into the dignified cold glint in Sansa Stark’s eyes.

A moment to collect his inner resources, then he bowed defeat. “As you wish. I can tell when I’ve been beaten. Ha, ha!” He stood and squeezed her shoulders. “I do believe you will like it here, Sansa.”

She saw venom in his glance.  
________________________________________

“You are just about the sweetest thing we’ve ever had in this house. Don’t you agree, Grandmama?” Madame Olenna Tyrell murmured in agreement with her granddaughter.

Sansa was enjoying after-dinner tea with the Tyrell ladies in their parlor. Loras had been in and out; charming and handsome, but not too engaging. For reasons Sansa did not fully grasp, Loras did not really live here but instead had rooms with Renly Baratheon, the Prime Minister’s younger brother; however, as far as the press was concerned, Loras lived with his sister and grandmother. His name was on the lease along with Olenna and Margaery’s.

It was clear, however, that Madame Olenna Tyrell alone owned and ran this house. 

And what a house it was! Sansa hoped she didn’t appear gawkish studying it. She’d never been in such… _bohemian_ surroundings! The two-story red brick building was sandwiched between two houses in a long row of buildings just like it in a bustling, fashionable neighborhood just a couple blocks from the opera. From out the open window, Sansa could hear violin strains and piano scales in neighboring homes.

The only word for the furnishings was lush. The carpeting was a deep maroon, almost matching the pin-striped walls. Small chandeliers hanged from the ceiling. Ornate Braavosi fans lined the wall, and there were portraits of pretty young women wearing robes and holding parasols. All the furniture was of a blood red velvet with gilded frames not unlike the balconies at the opera house. A large painting of a saloon fight was positioned right above the dining room.

As for the inmates of the house, their dress and manners reflected their environment. The Dame of Thorns did indeed have a prickly tongue, but so far Sansa avoided getting stung. The ballet mistress’s deeply wrinkled skin was covered in thick powder with a black beauty mark painted at the corner of her chin. She wore a roomy dressing robe more elegant than the ones in the photographs. Her gray hair was tied up in a head scarf, and two sardonic brown eyes peered out at her granddaughter and Sansa as if they were a music hall comedy act she was begrudgingly enjoying.

To be sure, Margaery Tyrell was entertaining enough to carry a solo act. Sansa had never met such an effortlessly charming, warm girl! Though only a few years older than Sansa, she was so self-possessed and sophisticated she seemed several years older than that. She had a clever feline face that was always smiling. Her topaz dress with its plunging neckline was just as fabulous up close as her dresses always were in their black and white photographs in the paper.

She’s taken quickly to Sansa, and kept up the conversation at a lively pace. “…Anyway, after the audition, Grandmama announced that I had all the dancing talent of a deranged duck! And so I turned to singing instead, like Loras. I don’t believe Grandmama has ever recovered.”

Playing along with her granddaughter, Madame Olenna turned exaggerated eyes to the heavens, an outsized tremor in her voice. “Yes, it was very hard on me not having my granddaughter in the ballet. The only bigger tragedy would have been if she actually was.”

Sansa joined Margaery in her self-deprecating laughter. What a life these two famous ladies led! Answering to no one but themselves, commanding their small staff themselves, so close to everything, at the center of everything….

 _And if I’m lucky, maybe I will be, too!_ The thought made her cheeks flush with excitement.

“Tell me, Sansa,” Olenna said speculatively. “How extensive is your experience singing in front of audiences?”

Sansa made sure to swallow her crumpet slowly, giving her time to phrase her answer. “Um…well, not too extensive, I must admit.”

The ladies waited.

Sansa cleared her throat. “I sang at social gatherings at my parents’ home, of course.” (Not too often, and only when Ned wasn’t around). “And…at church functions, charity concerts in town. I acted in some party games. That…that sort of thing.”

 _My god, the girl’s a country mouse. She’ll be eaten alive._ The thought did not show in Olenna Tyrell’s face at all as she said, “Well, that’s very interesting. And what sort of music did you sing there, Sansa?”

Her face was as red as the chair she sat in. “Well…usually standard recital pieces. I…I tried singing some arias from operas, like from _Elenei of the Wind_ and _The Rhoyne Cycle_ , but they didn’t go over too well. The church committee ladies said they were too heavy for a night’s light entertainment.” Sansa was still bitter about that. How could they be so backward about everything? When even the loggers in the back who just came for the free food looked impressed afterward! 

“There was just no chance for me to really sing there! That’s why I had to come here to King’s Landing.”

Margaery and Madame Olenna were both charmed by her vehemence. She had absolutely no guile, this one. They just hoped she had talent to make up for the lack.

Margaery pat her hand kindly. “Well, we’re both very glad you’re here. Although I do warn you: beware the Lioness of Lannister!” Margaery pretended to shiver. “Cersei’s a fright. She hates the very sight of me. Why, I can’t tell; I’m a contralto, she’s a soprano. It’s not like I’m a threat to any of her roles.”

“Ah, but you’re younger and the papers pay attention to you, Margaery. Every article they devote to you is one less for Cersei.”

“Yes, Grandmama, and that is just the sort of thing she’d obsess over. Not that she likes it when she is mentioned, since that means they’re gossiping about her personal life. She’s just never happy! Of course, I wouldn’t be happy either with a brat like Joffrey as my son. That’s another thing, Sansa,” she said, staring at Sansa to make sure she was paying attention. Sansa thrilled at Margaery Tyrell taking such a sisterly interest in her. “Stay away from that son Joffrey of hers! Boy is a menace, as I learned the hard way,” she said with bitterness.

Sansa recalled now that the two of them were mentioned quite a few times in the papers a year or so ago.

“I’ll remember that,” Sansa said. What a lot to take in! Sansa was disappointed about all the negative reports of Cersei. The diva had always looked so refined and classical in photographs. All Sansa’s former daydreams of the older singer maybe taking Sansa under her wing looked pretty ridiculous now.

“Is there anything else I should watch out for?”

“Well, there’s the Phantom, of course!” Margaery said, wiggling her eyebrows.

Sansa sat up excited, but Madame Olenna just groaned. “Not that nonsense again!”

“It’s not nonsense, Grandmama. The ghost is real.”

“Real, my left foot. It’s just something Baelish drummed up for publicity.”

Margaery shrugged. “I don’t know, Grandmama. There was that odd accident of the prop master who kept missing his cues and then showed up drowned in the Blackwater. Or that dancer who got drunk and ruined the ballet a few years ago found hanged in her dressing room. Or” – 

“Suicide, both cases,” Olenna said in a clipped voice. “No one missed them.”

“Grandmama! What will Sansa think of us?”

“She’ll hopefully have more sense than you and realize what I’m saying is the truth. There is no ghost.”

Margaery refused to back down. “There is a ghost. Well, not really a ghost, of course, but someone’s going around the opera house causing trouble. My personal guess is the Hound.”  
Sansa’s head shot up at that. “Sandor Clegane?”

Both women looked mildly surprised she knew his name. “You’ve met him?”  
   
“Yes, Lord Baelish had him show me around.”

“How gallant of him,” Madame Olenna snorted sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“But, what’s all this about him being the ghost?” Sansa inched nearer Margaery. Her heart was pounding oddly.

Margaery inched closer, too, happy to share her pet conspiracy. “Well, the truth about Clegane is that he’s only ‘head stagehand’ as a cover for the fact that since his brother disappeared all those years ago, he’s been one of Tywin Lannister’s chief lackeys after serving a few years in the military. Well, now he’s been lent to Baelish for the past ten or so years. Whatever Baelish or the Lannisters ask, their faithful hound hops to it. So maybe Baelish needs a cast member put in line, or needs to get rid of a drunk dancer or tardy prop master. We theatrical people are a superstitious lot. So why not get the Hound to dispose of whoever’s getting in the way, and keep everybody else in line by convincing them it’s some all-seeing phantom? After all, every story about the Phantom centers around the fact he’s disfigured and very strong. Hm, who does that describe?” She asked facetiously.

Sansa swallowed drily.

Margaery sat back and laughed. “Well, anyway, that’s my theory. What do you think, Grandmama?”

“I think it’s balderdash. Baelish simply took advantage of some unfortunate accidents to get in the papers.” 

The ladies talked a while more, but Sansa did not pay them much heed. The day faded into evening, and evening into night.

Soon Sansa found herself staring out her new bedroom window. She had the most fantastic view of the city. It was often said King’s Landing only came alive at night, and she could see why now. The street lamps turned the city ablaze, and she could still hear the strain of violins, only now other instruments like guitars and cellos were added to the mix, floating in from restaurant patios.

Out against the skyline, Sansa could just make out the Tower of Peace, that famous monument to the dissolution of the Iron Throne so many centuries ago. The tower had come to represent many a lover’s rendezvous in the public imagination. 

Sansa wondered if she’d have any such adventure there.

Beyond the tower stood the opera house.

Sansa shivered and thought of Sandor Clegane and Margaery’s words.

He was strong and he was frightening and he was disfigured. That was all true. So why did Margaery’s words make her so indignant? Why should she feel so put out at the idea of him pretending to be the Phantom?

_Because he seemed so honest. So lacking in any kind of pretenses._

Sansa crawled into bed. She blew out her candle and turned over. Alone in the dark, Sansa at last felt the weight of the day crush her.

She liked the Tyrells, but the truth was for the first time in her life she was all alone.

Jeyne Poole had been at Madame Mordane’s with her and they roomed together, so they had each other to cling to during bouts of homesickness. She and Jeyne would hold hands across each other’s beds, Jeyne whispering about her sisters, Sansa about Lady. Oh, how Sansa missed Lady! Lady was a product of a hasty tryst between Ned’s prize hunting bitch and a wolf in the woods. The dog ended up having a litter of six whelps, one for each Stark child and for Jon, too. 

At least, that was what was decided when each Stark child begged and pleaded with their father. At last, Lord Stark had consented, reasoning that back in the Middle Ages, the Stark sigil was a direwolf, after all.

Her mother was not pleased, but Lady was Sansa’s dearest, sweetest friend.

Her lovely Lady.

Winterfell.

So many miles away.

Sansa had nothing here, nothing but her talent to see her through.

But _would_ it see her through?

It was the memory of a deep voice repeating a certain phrase to her that comforted her enough to sleep:

_“You’ll be all right, girl.”_


	4. Chapter 4

Margaery squeezed Sansa’s hand before leaving Sansa at the theater’s door. “Good luck,” she whispered. 

Sansa looked into her friend’s supportive face and smiled weakly in return. Margaery gave her hand one more squeeze and then left.

Sansa stared at the doors for a moment.

She should be feeling only excitement, anticipation. 

Instead, there was only dread in her heart on this the day of her audition.

She’d spent the days before practicing and practicing, first for a reassuringly impressed Margaery and Madame Olenna, then for the opera’s principal singing coach, the old and doddering Dr. Pycelle. The stooped old fellow had not looked up once when Sansa sang for him. Once Sansa even suspected him of falling asleep.

Most disappointing of all, however, was that he never said a word about her singing, good or otherwise. He’d merely mumble, “Yes, thank you very much, that will do,” after she’d finished and then dismissed her.  
Margaery and Madame Olenna praised her, but Sansa still did not know if she had a voice worthy of understudying for the opera’s star.

Otherwise, Sansa was acclimating herself slowly to her new environment. She’d received a quick note from Jeyne Poole that Madame Mordane didn’t seem inclined to check up on their cover story that Sansa’s parents changed their mind about sending Sansa away. And so Sansa relaxed and socialized a little, with girls like Mya Stone and Myranda Royce (a soubrette and Margaery’s understudy, respectively). She hadn’t seen Lord Baelish or the managers since. She wondered if in the hustle of the theatrical world, she’d simply been forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.

She had seen Sandor Clegane again. Quite a few times. He always seemed lurking just in the shadows, an immense guardian of the backstage area. 

His attitude changed from encounter to encounter. Sometimes he’d revel in teasing her, inspiring her to meet his banter, his lively, stormy eyes taking her in. Other times he’d stride past her without a word, without a glance from his stony face.  
She shivered each time she neared him and her temples would pound, but not with the fear she’d expect to feel when confronted with someone her friend thought was a Phantom and a killer.

Speaking of the Hound, as Sansa stared at the doors in front of her, she heard his unmistakable deep voice right above her. “Waiting for the doors to swing open by themselves, little bird?”

Sansa turned around to face him. His cheek twisted in that way that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite a smirk, either. 

Sansa couldn’t find her voice today. A problem, seeing what she was about to do.

Sandor leaned near her, laughing. “You ain’t afraid of trilling for this lot, are you? They’re only a bunch of stuffed shirts, girl.”

Sansa nodded, smiling a little. “I guess I’d better go in now,” she said uneasily.

Cheek still twisting, Sandor opened the door. “Yep. In you get.”

What was it about that off-hand tone of his that was so immensely comforting to her?

Sansa stared at the rows of seats in front of her leading to the stage. Taking a deep breath and throwing her head back, she charged forth.

 _She looks like a soldier riding off to battle,_ Sandor thought. _And aye, I guess that’s what she is._

Sandor watched her approach the stage and speak to Arys Oakheart, the director.

Sandor shifted on his feet.

There were places he could be. Work to see to.

Yet seeing her nod to the director’s words and hold back her fright so obviously, something made Sandor move inside the theater, off to a corner in the back, unseen.  
________________________________________

Sansa headed backstage to wait until she was called onstage. Baelish had apparently made it so the other girls auditioned before her, so it was just Sansa now.

They were waiting for Cersei. The diva insisted on being present for her understudys’ auditions.

Sansa paced a little nervously, singing her scales softly to herself.

She stood back as a team of ballet girls bounded past to get to their dressing rooms.

One short figure turned back and approached Sansa jauntily. “Hey! I know you! You’re my fellow Northern girl, ain’t you?”

Sansa stared at the round, freckled face before her. The girl’s accent was unmistakably Northern, up past Winterfell, probably! 

The girl obviously came from modest means, given her dialect. Sansa was reminded of Rickon’s nanny Osha who spoke in a similar way. Her people were probably loggers or trappers.

Remembering her manners, Sansa curtseyed. “Yes I am, Sansa Stark. And you are, miss?”

The girl laughed loudly and gracelessly, slapping the astounded Sansa on the back. “Oh, but you’re a lady, ain’t you? Didn’t know we had any of them back home! I’m Ygritte. I’m lead dancer in my line. Still, you’re definitely from up there. Got that lilt in your voice.” Arms akimbo, Ygritte looked her over. “Y’know, not only are we both from the North, but we could be sisters, too. Look at us!”

Arm around Sansa’s waist, the high-spirited girl spun them to face the stand-up mirror near the curtain.

Sansa wasn’t as sure as she looked in the glass first at herself then the beaming girl beside her. They both had similar coloring and _maybe_ similar eyes, but Sansa couldn’t quite see it. Their hair color differed in hue, for example. Ygritte’s was a bright, flaming orange red, while Sansa’s auburn hair had light brown locks intertwined with the copper. Ygritte’s pug-nosed face was covered in freckles, whereas Sansa’s…all right, Sansa had a _few_ freckles, but nothing compared to this girl’s!

There was also the difference in height. Sansa was a little tall for her sex, whereas the dancer was the opposite. 

Mostly, though, the difference lied in their dress. Ygritte’s straight hair was tumbling out of its bun, and she wore the plain white tutu all dancers wore. Sansa, meanwhile, had finally been able to wear some of the dresses she’d packed that she’d ordered from the Reach. Today she wore her silk blue gown with lace trimming on the sleeves.

Although she sometimes put her hair up as was the current style, Sansa found herself often preferring the soft but still elegant look of her long thick curls hanging down. Today she made sure to add a few lovely amber combs to make her look a bit dressier.  
She resembled a dress mannequin from a high-end department store next to Ygritte.

Still, a friendly face was a friendly face.

Swallowing the class consciousness that had been pounded into her since youth, Sansa squeezed Ygritte’s hand around her waist. “Yes, just like sisters,” she agreed with a grin.

Ygritte suddenly caught sight of something on the stage over Sansa’s shoulder. “Uh-oh! Here comes Her Royal Pain-in-the-Arse! I’m getting out of here. Good luck, cap’n!” With impulsive energy, Ygritte hugged her tightly and then ran off with a raucous laugh.  
Shaking her head, a little befuddled, Sansa turned to the stage where Ygritte had been looking.

And then she held onto the curtain to steady herself.

Cersei Lannister stood there, decked out in all her finery, a young man with blond hair and smart suit in tow.

Sansa stared at her with unabashed admiration. There were the famous high cheekbones, the green sloe eyes, the golden hair piled high atop her head.

Her face was strangely immobile as she listened to Mr. Oakheart. At one point she blatantly looked to stop listening altogether, her eyes tiredly tracing the stage until they fell on Sansa.

They stayed there.

Sansa stopped breathing.

With a small nod at Arys almost like an afterthought, Cersei with great grandeur walked toward Sansa with hand outstretched. “Is this our little dove here?”

Oh, what a melodious voice. Sansa stepped forward and curtseyed more deeply than she had yet. “Ms. Lannister, it’s such an honor to meet you,” she said in a rapid whisper.

Like a queen from a song, Cersei placed a gloved hand underneath Sansa’s chin and raised her to stand before her. She smelled of rich spices from across the Narrow Sea.

Cersei spread out the girl’s arms and looked her over. “My, but you are a beauty, little dove. How old are you?”

“Eighteen, ma’am.”

“Ah, to be eighteen again,” she said with an airy laugh. “You are a lucky girl. I remember my first audition here. Don’t let us frighten you, now. I’m sure you’ll be marvelous.”  
Her sweet smile did not reach her eyes.

Before Sansa could respond, Cersei turned away from her back to Arys. “Shall we begin?” Cersei asked, voice flatter.

Arys bowed his head.

Gathering her mink around her, Cersei walked off stage without a backward glance to Sansa. 

“I’m Joffrey, by the way,” a voice spoke to Sansa, making her jump. She turned to see the young man that had accompanied Cersei onstage. He had a crop of golden hair and was dressed immaculately. “Cersei’s eldest son. How do you do?”

With a friendly bright smile, he shook her hand. Sansa murmured in greeting.

He was a very pretty boy. But Sansa remembered what Margaery had told her, and she thought she saw something rather crafty in his politely interested green eyes, like his mother’s but more intense. Therefore, she was on her guard. “I’m sure you’ll do a lovely job,” he said, winking.

He joined his mother in the audience.

Also in the audience now were the people she thought had forgotten her: Varys, Tyrion, even Baelish. They all sat a row behind Cersei, Joffrey, and Arys.

Arys opened a libretto and signaled to the pianist onstage. Arys called to Sansa. “When you’re ready, Miss Stark.”

_Oh, God. How could I ever be ready?_

A brief moment of inner collapse, despair.

Then Sansa’s feet moved forward, and she found herself center stage.

With marionette-like precision, she nodded to the pianist.

Sansa had carefully chosen her aria, “Alyssa’s Lament.” While the words were sad, they were in High Valyrian (as most of the great operas were), and so the meaning was dimmed a little to not depress the audience unduly. The melody was one of Sansa’s favorites: slow and swelling, with beautiful high notes complemented by complex scales. An impressive piece.

Sansa closed her eyes as the pianist played the opening bars. _I’m in Old Nan’s cottage. She’s playing as I sing. Lady is lying by the piano, listening. It’s snowing outside._

Then she opened her eyes and Alyssa peered out and Sansa sang.

________________________________________

A waterfall, that’s what Sandor was reminded of as the little bird sang. A waterfall.

A waterfall with bells in the distance. Clear skies, wind through the grass, a chirping bird flying by, flying up to the mountains.

That was the little bird’s voice.

He saw wings.

The theater was filled with an unnatural quiet as she sang, full of an unnatural stillness. There was nothing there but the pretty girl in blue with the copper highlights in her hair creating a bright halo all around her.

Her eyes poured out a dark radiance.

And her voice, her voice, her voice….

Sandor very quietly slipped further down the aisle, until he was behind a pillar close to the front row, unnoticed by all. 

Everyone’s eyes were on her.

So were Sandor’s.

The majority of the people present were not there during the Scandal. Oakheart was relatively new, and Tyrion had been just a lad then, at Casterly. Joffrey, of course, had not yet been born. The couple of stage managers present had only ever heard of what happened that day.

The only three who knew all the figures involved were Varys, Baelish, and Cersei.

As Sansa sang, Tyrion and the others were delighted and enthralled by what they heard.

But Varys stole a glance at Cersei.

He was not surprised to see her face seized in fury, eyes wide with blazing hatred.

He was not surprised when he heard her hiss the same name that had come to him and Petyr, as well: _“Lyanna!”_

Aside from Varys, the only other person who heard her announcement was Sandor behind his pillar.

He heard Tyrion whisper, “I say, Varys! This girl is remarkable! She needs a little bit more training, maybe; I’m no expert, but it sounds like she lacks control. But she blows everyone else out of the water!”

“Yes, but you’re not hearing what I’m hearing, Tyrion.”

“What’s that?”

“Your sister hears it. This is Lyanna Stark’s voice, calling from beyond the grave. A bit sweeter in tone, less sweeping, but there it is.”

Sandor glanced sharply first at the managers, then the lioness’s enraged face, and then at Sansa.

The contrast between Cersei’s face full of hate and the young girl enchanted with her own song made him ache, deeply.

A dull fury darkened his mood when the girl burst into a wide, ignorant smile as her song finished and Baelish and the others stood and cheered.

No one saw the curtain in Box Five flicker just so.

________________________________________  
Sansa didn’t know what to think afterward. They had all cheered so, Baelish and Joffrey yelling “encore” and “bravo!” They all seemed so genuine as they congratulated her, and Sansa knew in her heart of hearts that she sang well.

Then why did Cersei leave without a word right when she finished? Why did she need to leave so violently that the doors shut with a bang behind her?

Sansa speculated aloud with Margaery afterward in her dressing room, the two locked in discussion well into evening. Margaery assured her it was probably jealousy, and not to worry about it. The contralto then shooed her out of her room, telling her to take a carriage home. Margaery had a date with a handsome baritone. 

As Sansa walked down the darkened hallway, nodding good night to passing dancers and stagehands (including her new little friend from the ballet, the rambunctious Ygritte), the corridors became emptier and darker. At last she started feeling a little uneasy. Stories she’d heard about the Phantom started filling her head.

She picked up her pace….

…And ran straight into a large, looming mass of human flesh.

With a shriek, she looked up. She shut her eyes at the strong wave of Dornish Red she smelled.

“Why, if it isn’t the little bird, flying this way and that,” she heard that familiar deep voice rasp.

Only the words were slightly slurred.

She couldn’t see him clearly in the dim lantern-lit corridor near the exit, but she could smell him and hear him take another swig. “Heard you sing today, little bird. You live up to my little nickname for you.” He sneered nastily. “Songbird.” Another swig.  
Sansa had seen drunk people before. There were the villagers in Winterfell, of course. And once she had even snuck out of bed and listened giggling with Arya upstairs as her mother read Robb the riot act after the eldest Stark arrived late inebriated from the hunt. Still, she’d never had to deal with one alone. Certainly no one as large and unpredictable.

Whom Margaery thought was the Phantom.

She saw the doorway leading to the outside just over his shoulder.

“Yes, well, I’m…I’m glad you were there. Thank you for your support, sir. Good…Good night.” She made to speed off.

His hand was on her arm, swinging her around to face him. _“I’m no bloody sir.”_

She cried out in alarm.

He was leaning over her now, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. He looked like a bull about to charge. His hand was still around her arm, surer than a steel clasp. 

His eyes studied her frightened face. His lip curled upward like a snarl. “Do you really think you’ll ever be Cersei’s understudy, girl? Think she’d let you with a voice like yours, better than hers ever was? Even without that voice, you’re a Stark. Think she’d let a Stark take the stage again?”

He leered at her now, and his voice was full of tragic mockery. “So how about you just sing a little song for me, bird? Hm? One about knights and fair maidens? All that shit you probably thought this place would be full of. Come on, sing!”

Sansa darted her eyes this way and that. Sing for him? Here? “I’ll…I’ll sing for you gladly, Mr. Clegane. Which song would you like?”

He laughed at her bitterly, letting her go. “No, little bird, better not sing right now. But I will have a song from you someday, whether you will it or no.” He swayed a little on his feet. Suddenly he seemed to change his mind and he lunged at her again. “Look at me, little bird. Don’t look away. I’m about to tell you a story, sadder than an opera. It’s about an idiot little boy and what happens when you believe in stories. How…how do you think I got these scars, bird?” He turned his face to the side, shoving them both into the lamplight.

She swallowed, taking in every crevice, every shining patch of red, twisted skin. “I…I don’t know. Were you…were you here the night of the fire?”

“Puh,” he said dismissively. “No. I was only a lad of scarcely fifteen years when that happened, still at Casterly Rock. But that wasn’t the first time Gregor used fire. See, do you know why I’m here, girl? I’m here because my brother’s not. I was already running little errands for Tywin Lannister along with helping out in the kennels by the time Gregor left to act as Robert’s second. I didn’t do anything big in those days, just cornering an investor late in his payments here, beating up a banker there, that sort of thing. Gregor…heh, Gregor he used for killing.

“But then Gregor went away. Haven’t heard from him once since he burned this place to the ground. He high-tailed it out of here. And so what was Tywin Lannister to do? Why, use his pup brother as replacement, once I returned from the military. The beatings got rougher. One bloke got nasty back, and what could I do but punch him hard as I could? His neck broke. I’d have been hanged for sure if the old lion hadn’t bailed me out and made up some bullshit story. I saw then what I would become. Want to know what saved me? Was it my conscience, telling me to get out while I still could? Bullshit. It was that fucking Littlefinger. Said he needed a strong arm to run things round here. So what did I get after spending ten years tending to every one of Lannister’s fucking whims? I get carted off here, to this carnival of whores and dandies.”

His expression darkened like night.

“But I was telling you about my brother. And about that dumb little git who got what he deserved. I’ll tell you. That git was me and I was six years old. My father come back from a trip to town with a couple toys some toymaker gave him for training his dogs. The old man threw ‘em at us without a single thought who got what. I don’t remember what I got, I just wanted Gregor’s. It was a toy soldier, every joint beautifully made. All painted, with strings to make it move. Well, my brother was six foot tall at that time, he had no need of it, so I took it.”

There was something in his face all of a sudden just like a little boy, but a feral little boy in pain, in anger.

“He found me by the fire at night. He didn’t say a word. He picked me under his arm and shoved me into the coals as I screamed.”

He seemed to stop breathing as he stared dead-eyed into that scene from the past. “My father said my bedding caught fire. And nine years later, Gregor took a boat to Braavos or Essos and is probably living the high life right this minute, like a _gentleman._ ”  
The dead eyes kept staring into a distance beyond them both. He did not appear to see her anymore. 

But he felt her small hand on his shoulder, as if to lean in for a kiss. “That is no gentleman, Sandor.” There was something almost wise and womanly in her tone.

A harsh, sardonic laugh as he pulled away from her. “No, pretty bird. That was no gentleman at all.” The burning embers were in his eyes and his gleaming smile. 

He appeared to sober somewhat as he looked her over. “What are you doing here, anyhow?”

Sansa was jarred by the sudden return to reality. “Um, I’m going to catch a carriage home.”

Sandor looked at her hard once and then twisting that cheek again, he grabbed her arm as was his wont and dragged her out the door and to the curb.  
He sent off the pageboy to the line of carriages and waited with her in the nighttime air.

Neither said a word. They were lost in their own private hellish thoughts.

He held open the door for her.

She leaned out the window and placed a hand on his shoulder again. “Thank you, Mr. Clegane. I hope to see you tomorrow.”

Before she disappeared inside, Sandor grabbed her hand, stilling her. “Not a lot of people know the story I just told you, little bird.” His voice was low, expressionless.

“I won’t tell a soul.”

“Good,” he said almost wearily, releasing her hand. “Do and I’ll kill you.”

Sansa could read nothing in his opaque eyes as the carriage took off.

Later, Sandor crawled into bed in the boarding house near the opera. It was only as sleep was about to claim him that a thought occurred to him, spinning around his alcohol-fueled brain.

She’d called him Sandor.  
________________________________________

Petyr Baelish stayed late that night, working on some expense accounts in his office. 

He noticed the flame in his candle flicker slightly, as if by a breeze from a door or window closing. Or someone entering the room.

He smiled and looked ahead of him into nothing. “So you heard her, eh?”

The dark figure in the corner did not answer. 

Baelish sat back in his chair. “Given her rather rude reception of me the other day, I thought of sending her back home to Winterfell, but if you’re sure….”


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa tossed and turned that night. What an unsettling end to what should have been a triumphant day! She should be dwelling on her audition, which she still counted as a success despite Cersei’s reaction.

Instead she was thinking of a six-year-old boy, terrified, as a monster dragged him screaming into a fire.

Sansa shivered and turned over, clutching her blankets to her chest.

What disturbed Sansa the most was her total lack of fear at Sandor’s threat. She resented the threat on her life, but something about him…she just knew somehow that even if she were to talk (which she wouldn’t), her life would never be in danger with him. Why should she feel this way about him, when she knew he was violent and given Margaery’s suspicions?

And if he didn’t mean it, why say it? Why did he get drunk and pour out that whole story to her? Why ask her to sing for him in such a mocking tone? Why so much anger at _her?_

Or was he angry _for_ her?

Sansa didn’t believe she’d ever get to sleep, so she was taken aback at the knock on her door that woke her to sunlight pouring through her window.

A bit disoriented, Sansa sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Come in?”

Margaery opened the door, her movements slow and reluctant. She had on what Sansa’s father called a “battle face.” “Hello, dear. I’ve got something to tell you.”

She sat on Sansa’s bed, looking like a doctor with bad news. “They’ve cast the understudy.”

Sansa felt her face go white. She remembered Sandor’s prophetic words that she’d never be Cersei’s understudy.

Sansa swallowed bravely. “Yes?”

Margaery raised her eyebrows regretfully. She held up a piece of paper and narrowed her eyes, reading it. “Yes, they’ve gone with some new Northern girl with light reddish-brown hair, named Sandra Stork, or something? Samsa Smock from Wonderful? Oh, yes,” Her face swiftly changed from sadly resigned to that of a kitten who’d found the last saucer of milk. _“Sansa Stark from Winterfell.”_

Sansa blinked, mouth agape.

Then she shrieked and lunged at Margaery, catching the laughing contralto in a fierce hug. “I’ll never forgive you for that, never!” She said, laughing in Margaery’s hair. 

“Sorry, I’m an actress above everything, and I had to seize the opportunity!”

They laughed and shrieked together for a few minutes, until Sansa sat back, breaths sharp as tears of relief ran down her face. Wiping them away, she asked, “Wait, how did you find out? You can’t have been to the opera house and back at this early hour.”  
Margaery held up that same piece of paper. “This telegram just came in. It’s unsigned, but it’s definitely from the opera. Probably from Tyrion Lannister. Here.”

As Margaery prattled on about going shopping to celebrate, Sansa read the telegram:

“TELL THE LITTLE BIRD THAT CASTING ANNOUNCEMENT JUST POSTED OUTSIDE LITTLEFINGER’S DOOR: SANSA STARK IS CERSEI LANNISTER’S NEW UNDERSTUDY.”

Her heart thudded like a drum.

 _Little bird._  
________________________________________

Tyrion poured himself another drink. He needed it. Cersei had been prowling his office spitting out her vitriol for almost twenty minutes now.

“I know you’re a bitter little man,” Cersei was spitting now, still pacing. “But to ignore my explicit wishes and cast her over my head” –

Tyrion set his glass down, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Oh, for the love of – Cersei, how many times do I have to tell you? Baelish is the one who makes the final decisions! He didn’t consult with Varys or me, or even Oakheart.”  
“So?” Cersei marched right up to his desk, eyes boring into his. “Why didn’t you take issue with him?”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows, astonished at his usually savvy sister’s adamant ignorance. “Argue with Baelish? You must be joking. Surely it’s clear to you what Littlefinger has in mind here. He’s obviously panting after this girl the way he used to with her mother. You wouldn’t take food out of a bird of prey’s talons.”

“Still, if you weren’t a cowardly worm, you could have said something”—

“And what if I happen to agree with the casting? That Miss Stark is by far the best choice?” His voice was quiet, his gaze even.

Cersei froze. 

She whipped his glass off the table, sending it breaking against the floor.

Tyrion merely glanced at the pool of liquid growing on the carpet. “Waste of good brandy,” was all he commented.

Cersei was pacing again, as if spurred on by an unseen demon. “You have no idea, you have no idea,” she muttered, speaking almost as if to herself. “You have no idea how it feels.”

Tyrion looked at her with concern. There was still indignant anger in her voice, but a deeper edge now of heartbreak, fear. 

The same emotions were reflected in her blazing eyes. “All those years ago, finally getting to leave Casterly and Father’s coldness. Getting to sing. And then having _her_ there, _her_ singing, the critics all saying that _she_ was the true leading lady, and I was only there because of Father’s influence. You have no idea how I fought once she was gone and I could finally take the spotlight unopposed. How freeing it was when I finally won and no one mentioned her anymore.”

After all these years, Cersei still couldn’t say Lyanna’s name out load – at least, not unless her niece stood before her singing with that same voice.

Tyrion felt a rare concern for his older and troubled sister. She’d always been difficult, strident and full of contempt. Yet slowly, over the years, Tyrion noticed she seemed to becoming undone, stitch by stitch.

Was it the years of unhappy marriage to the never faithful drunkard Robert Baratheon? Her disappointed infatuation with the married Rhaegar Targaryen? And then to add insult to injury, watching as Rhaegar cheated on his wife with Lyanna, Cersei’s rival? Was it finally facing the realization she could no longer deny that there was simply _something wrong_ with young Joffrey, some vital piece of humanity missing?

Or was it that over a year ago their brother Jaime, her handsome twin, resigned from his military post in town and started a fencing school in the Stormlands with his new wife, the blatantly unfeminine and unconventional Brienne Tarth?

Observing the once unusually close dynamic of the golden twins and the equally golden hair of Cersei’s supposed offspring with Baratheon, Tyrion had long held a dark, hideous suspicion he never dared name, even to himself…a suspicion that back in the day when the incestuous Targaryen royalty ruled the lands might not have been too outlandish, but now…unthinkable.

Still, the suspicion roiled.

Perhaps it was a combination of all these stressors, but the once indomitable Cersei Lannister could now scarcely contain her bitterness, her rage. Her voice was losing its luster, and her acting was more like an elaborate form of sleepwalking now.  
“After all this time, suddenly a Stark girl thinks she can come back into my opera house. _My_ opera house!” This practically a scream. “Pycelle was right about her, the impudent little” -- 

“Calm down!” Tyrion snapped. Softening his voice, he said, “I know you’ve not had an easy time of it, other than all the fame and fortune.” He tried to temper his sarcasm at her sharp glare. “None of us have had an easy time as the children of Tywin Lannister. I know you’ve worked hard in your own way for your place. I understand.”

“You understand nothing! I’ll tell you one thing, brother of mine,” She spat out the last part as if cursing at him. She practically slithered up to his desk. “She will never sing in my place. Never.”

Tyrion fought the involuntary shiver her tone caused. “Well, don’t get sick and she won’t have to,” he tried to be flippant.

He got a bitter laugh in return. “Oh, you don’t think she’d wait for that, do you?”

“Not everyone is as scheming as you are, Cersei. This girl’s just excited to be part of the company.”

“You don’t know what it’s like onstage. How it can take someone with relatively innocent ambition and turn them into a monster. You’ll see. She’ll feel the power up there and then the little dove won’t stop until she’s in my place. You’ll see.” Her smirk was full of grim foreboding.

“She’s not her aunt, Cersei! She’s just a girl!”

“A girl who will never, ever sing in my place.” Cersei repeated, bringing her fist down on 'never' and ‘ever’. “I don’t care what I have to do,” she finished in a low voice.

Before Tyrion could object, she turned sharply and barged out of his office.

Tyrion reached for another glass, sighing.

________________________________________

Mind still in a storm, Cersei hurried to her dressing room. She lusted for a drink as well.

En route, she crossed paths with the very figure circling her mind now, carrying shopping bags.

“Ah, little dove!” She cried out, voice and smile dripping sugar. “Congratulations are in order, I hear.”

 _How prettily the little dear blushes._ “Thank you, Ms. Lannister. I can’t tell you what an honor it is to understudy you”—

“And what have we here?” Cersei asked, taking in her bags. “Celebrating, are we?”

 _Does she blush so much out of modesty, or is the poor girl come down with fever?_ “Yes, Margaery insisted. Margaery Tyrell.” Sansa blushed now out of embarrassment. _Cersei knows what Margaery it is, you ninny! And she’s not too fond of her, either._  
But Cersei only laughed melodiously again. “Let me guess. Now you’re going to try on your dresses for her and your little friends, aren’t you?”

Sansa nodded happily, every inch the guileless damsel. “Mya Stone and Myranda Royce are waiting in her dressing room.”

Cersei clasped her gloved hands, face tender and sweet. “How wonderful. What better crowd for an aspiring slut to rehearse her wares with? Believe me, you’ll get the best pointers from those three. A bigger passel of whores you’ll seldom find, and I’m sure you’ll join their ranks in no time. If you haven’t already.”

Pinching her cheek brutally, Cersei then pushed past her violently, knocking her shoulder with hers.

Both from the jolt and the shock, Sansa dropped her bags as Cersei disappeared down the corridor.

Shaking, Sansa bent down to pick up her purchases, many of which had tumbled out of their bags. Tears clouded her vision.

A large hand appeared, picking up a scarf. “Need a hand?” 

Sansa warmed at the sound of that gruff voice.

She glanced up to his distant but understanding eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They quietly collected her things.

At last Sandor helped her up. “So the lioness finally bit you, eh?” There was nothing mocking in his tone.

Sandor concurred with Cersei and the Tyrells: the little bird was far too guileless. Her face now was a naked picture of her conflicted emotions. Her eyes were open pools of confusion and sadness. “I just don’t understand!” Her voice shook. “Why do I make everybody so mad? I’m not doing anything wrong, I just want to sing. But Cersei obviously hates me, Lord Baelish is probably angry I chose to live with the Tyrells instead of him, and by the way, you threatened to kill me last night!”

Her face was indignant now. “What about that, anyhow?”

Sandor hated how this girl had a way of constantly catching him off guard. His chest tightened at the mention of Baelish wanting her to live with him, but now her accusing glare was on him.

With good reason, he had sense enough to admit.

“I was drunk,” he muttered lamely.

“That’s no excuse.”

The wolf was in her eyes.

“No, it’s not,” his voice was rough and rueful. “Maybe I’m just a bad man, little bird, who doesn’t think when he speaks.”

The wolf receded just a bit. “I can believe that last part,” she said. “But I’m not sure about the first. Was it a bad man who sent me the telegram this morning?” Her voice was shy and warm, a little smile forming.

Sandor scowled. _I’m not turning into some soft bloody whelp for this girl. Why the fucking hells_ did _I send the bloody thing?_

He hated what the answer was:

_Because you couldn’t stand her worrying about it, and so you wanted to let her know as soon as possible._

He hated that answer so much he ignored it. So he stood ominously over her again, similar to his drunken stance last night. “Aye, maybe it was. How do you even know it was me? Maybe it was the Phantom?”

He meant these words to be darkly teasing, yet a true look of fright entered her wide eyes and she unconsciously backed away from him, looking away. _All that talk about Sandor and the Phantom…then he says that and stands over me just so…._

Sandor’s face fell and he laughed harshly. “So the little bird does fear the big bad hound after all. Can’t bear to look, can you? Fine. You don’t have to, little bird.” With a sneer of contempt, he stalked off before she could find the words to stop him.


	6. Chapter 6

A couple weeks later, Sansa sat at the vanity in her shared dressing room with Mya and Myranda. Today was the first fitting for potential costumes, and they were to wear them onstage so Oakheart could critique them.

The three girls were playing the sisters to Cersei’s Jonquil in _Florian and Jonquil._

Sansa couldn’t believe her luck. Her first opera in King’s Landing was her absolute favorite. When Old Nan first gave her the sheet music five years ago she’d absolutely devoured the tale’s history, even going so far as to read the first Medieval epic poem about the pair (which differed completely from the opera. There was no deal between Florian and the Stranger in the original poem, or gifts of eternal youth and themes of redemption. Just a Fool falling in love at first sight. Sansa wasn’t sure which version she preferred; the simplicity of the original, or the complex grandeur of the opera).

In spite of their differing backgrounds, Sansa greatly enjoyed the company of Mya and Myranda. Mya would get along wonderfully with Arya, Sansa thought. Like Sansa’s younger sister, Mya had a strong tomboy streak. She jokingly bemoaned her current role, which demanded a light diaphanous bathing gown; as the opera’s principal soubrette, she’d become accustomed to playing the pants roles, which she insisted she much preferred.

Myranda Royce was a delightful plump young woman with a devilish sense of humor. She had a versatile voice, able to understudy Margaery the contralto while adapting her voice to alto for the sister role.

She was singing a battle song from _The Rhoyne Cycle_ now, in a jocular attempt to raise Mya’s spirits, who was complaining bitterly about the gown. “Ugh, I feel like I’m practically naked,” Mya complained, looking herself over. Sansa thought Mya was a lovely girl and often wished to see her in more feminine clothing, yet she had to agree she did look uncomfortable here.

Sansa turned to the mirror and studied herself, brushing her hair. She looked pretty, she thought tentatively. The light gown suited her, as did the simple hair arrangement. She did not care for the heavy makeup, however. From the audience’s perspective it might look suitable, but up close it looked almost frightening in its intensity.

Sansa wasn’t used to seeing her features highlighted so prominently, and therefore she’d never been so insecure about her looks. Since becoming enamored at a young age with heroines in novels, Sansa was vaguely put off by her coloring; every heroine was either golden-haired or dark-haired with black flashing eyes. Sansa couldn’t remember a single heroine with auburn hair and blue eyes.

Still, Sansa wasn’t immune to the compliments she’d received over the years, so she didn’t obsess over her perceived physical flaws as much as some of her contemporaries might.

Yet now….

Now Sansa felt like the heavy stage makeup made her look almost like a stranger to herself.

Mya tapped her on the shoulder. “Come on! They’ll want us in places in a few.”

Sansa quickly put her brush away and smoothed her skirt, casting one last glance at herself in the mirror. She flinched at how wide and scared her eyes looked and consciously tried to look cooler, more indifferent.

“Come on!” Myranda echoed Mya.

Sansa sped out, following them. 

“Knock ‘em dead, cap’n!” Ygritte called as Sansa rushed by. Sansa smiled at her little friend. She had no idea why Ygritte referred to her as ‘cap’n’, but in spite of herself Sansa found the nickname oddly endearing, just like the redheaded dancer.

Sansa wished dolefully that any sort of similar camaraderie was possible with Cersei, but she knew now it wasn't meant to be.

Sansa huddled in the wings behind Mya and Myranda. Cersei was making last minute adjustments with her maid. The beautifully made-up singer was dictating to Oakheart, who stood with arms folded staring down blankly at his feet, his usual non-threatening posture when dealing with Cersei. 

Cersei had barely said two direct words to her since the day Sansa’s casting as understudy was announced, but the leading lady still consistently made her cuts at the Northern girl. First she made sure to position herself onstage so that Sansa was always slightly obscured. Next, she interrupted her quartet with the sisters to say that the coloratura section (which consisted solely of Sansa) was far too loud, intrusive. Then there were the constant little allusions to the fact that a certain new cast member hadn’t been trained at a conservatory like all the other singers in the company, and was that really fair to everyone else?

Sansa felt in her heart she could overlook this pettiness if Cersei’s performance made up for it. However, Sansa was immensely disappointed with Cersei’s Jonquil. Her voice was pitch perfect with just the right amount of vibrato and control, but…lifeless. Empty of emotion. Same with her acting! Jonquil should be playful, fun! But Cersei made her haughty, unapproachable. Cold.

If only Sansa could be given a chance to perform the role, she’d imbue Jonquil with just the right mix of flirtatiousness and softness that first appeals to Florian -- 

“That shift all they’re giving you to wear, little bird?” 

Sansa jumped. How such a large man could approach so silently, she’d never know. Obviously Sandor was taking lessons from Varys.

He was looking at her now dubiously from where he stood with arms crossed by the curtains, eyes darkly interrogative as they raked over her.

Sansa felt a strange stirring in her stomach at his gaze. She glanced over her shoulder. Mya and Myranda were busy gossiping about Cersei at the curtain’s edge to notice her and the Hound. Sansa was glad of this.

They’d never officially made up since he mistook her reticence for fear of his face on the day Cersei insulted her. However, Sandor had apparently moved past the perceived slight and continued alternating between the mocking yet gruffly attentive commenter and the aloof snarling hound.

There was a slight hint of discomfort and annoyance as he looked at her revealing outfit, so she wasn’t yet sure which persona he’d choose today.

Clearing her throat, she answered him. “Well, the sisters _are_ supposed to be bathing.” She blushed.

His gaze darkened and he chuckled roughly. “Could be worse then,” came the sarcastic reply.

She shivered, though she didn’t feel cold or unpleasant. She…she wondered how he thought she looked. She’d never worn anything with such a low neckline before.

She peered up at him shyly.

She could tell by the way his eyes suddenly snapped fire that he misinterpreted her expression again.

“What? Scared the dog’s going to do more than just look, my lady?” He stiffened, and his eyes were so bewilderingly cagey. “Aye, think I’m going to paw at you right here backstage, don’t you?” 

Sansa swallowed her frustration and looked up at him with clear, knowing eyes. “You won’t hurt me,” she said gravely.

Something flickered in his face and his expression softened just slightly, almost collapsing. “No, little bird, I won’t hurt you.”

She was surprised tears stung her eyes at the genuine softening in his words and expression. She felt an urge to trace that crease in his cheek that ran down to his large tight-lipped mouth….

“Blount, watch that slat!” He suddenly barked at one of the passing stagehands, breaking his connection with her. “Don’t carry the buggering thing like that, it’s not indestructible, you know!”

Sansa swallowed her grin. She loved watching him work. He always was leaning against something or brooding when she came upon him, taken up by bitter thoughts or else darkly amused and preoccupied in a stone-faced way. Yet in an instant he’d prove that he was always on top of the work at hand, always knowing exactly where what should be and when. 

His moment of authority appeared to reawaken his rough side as he addressed Sansa again. He returned to their topic. “Aye, I might not hurt you, little bird, but there are others that would love to pluck your feathers if you’re not careful. Our diva, for example. But you know that by now. There are others worse than her, however….”

He snickered gruffly.

Sansa was so angry. Why couldn’t he just pick a mood and stick with it? “Why are you always so hateful?”

He smirked nastily at her. “I’m honest. It’s this theater that’s hateful.” He turned back to the stage, facing away from her. “Now fly away to your place onstage, little bird. I’m sick of you peeping at me.”

Tears threatened to fill her eyes for a different reason now. She hated him. She just hated him. He was an angry, hateful, awful brute, and –

Before she could flee onstage like he wanted, a solid figure collided with her clumsily and she felt a splash of liquid all over her.

Shocked, she looked up to the petrified face of Dontos Hollard, stinking of beer. His red, swimming eyes dumbly took in her ruined dress. He’d been unsteadily carrying a prop goblet full of a berry cider to stand in for wine. Struggling to keep himself upright, he’d walked right into Sansa and spilled the entire contents of the goblet onto her dress.

As Sansa took a shocked moment to look at the large purple stain that spread from her stomach to her knees, Sandor growled and grabbed the whimpering Hollard by the shirt collar once more. “You fucking fool!” He yelled in a fierce voice full of violence. He shook the sputtering stagehand.

“I – I’m sorry,” Hollard stammered, mostly to the Hound. Sansa was momentarily forgotten as he winced in Sandor’s grasp.

“Sandor…my…my dress….” Sandor looked sharply at the little bird. Her face was white and her blue eyes were filled with tears. She held out the skirt gently, devastated.

That tiny voice using his name again twisted like a knife in his chest.

Letting go of Hollard, he pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at the stain lightly. “There, little bird. Don’t fret. Come on, girl.” Her two fellow singers, the Stone girl and the Royce girl, were now there and also patting at the stain, murmuring comforting words to the crestfallen singer. A few others had gathered, whispering to themselves as they took in the spectacle.

_Go fuck yourselves with a rusty pitchfork,_ Sandor thought, glaring at the onlookers. A familiar fury pounded in his blood, threatening to overtake him. He turned to block her from view as her friends fussed.

Meanwhile, Hollard stood there gulping like an idiot. He kept muttering weak apologies to the girl. He was still struggling to keep his balance, his brief sobering moment after the jolt now gone.

Oakheart pushed through the small crowd. Cersei hovered behind him, aloof and contemptuous. “What’s going on here?” Oakheart demanded. He’d just stood through a solid fifteen minutes of more demands from Cersei than even usual, and so the normally even-tempered director had about reached his limit.

He took in the stained gown and Hollard standing nearby with the platter in his hands and the overturned goblet at his feet.

“Hollard!” He said sharply, practically a shout. He’d correctly sized up the situation. “Dammit, enough is enough. You’ve been warned time and time again. I told you just last week when you failed to open the shipping crates that was your last warning, and now I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have no choice”—

_“Wait, sir.”_ The little bird’s voice frantically interrupted. Sandor noticed the moment Oakheart started giving Hollard his dressing down, those downcast eyes of hers suddenly looked up alarmed, darting back and forth between the irate director and shamed stagehand (making her look even more like a bird). 

All eyes were back on her.

She was rueful, bashful. “I can’t let you blame Mr. Hollard. It was my fault. I…I turned around too quickly, and then ran straight into him. He was even trying to hold the platter back so it wouldn’t hit me, but I barreled ahead into him anyway.” 

“Girl” – Sandor’s voice was a low warning.

“It’s all right, Mr. Clegane. I can’t let Mr. Hollard take the fall.” Her cheeks were bright red. She looked down. “I’m so sorry.”

A moment of stunned silence. Hollard looked at her like he’d been hit by a train.

Oakheart was confused now in his irritation. He disliked having dispensed a lecture to the wrong party. So still prickly, he said in a clipped voice, “Miss Stark, do you have any idea how expensive this material is? I told you girls yesterday to be extra careful, as I tell everyone when they put on potential costumes. Now we’ll probably have to order another spool to patch you up a new dress”—

“Excuse me, sir,” a mousy little dresser named Gilly said who had helped dab at the stain. “But I think we have enough material left to pin over this. If I can just take Miss Stark to the dressing room quickly, we can” –

“I believe Miss Stark’s clumsiness has taken up enough of this morning’s rehearsal,” Cersei’s silky voice interjected. Speaking with ingrained ease and confidence, her next words were simply accepted as law. “We should just start the rehearsal now. Singing in her stained dress today should serve as a good lesson to Miss Stark and as a reminder to be more careful in the future.” Gifting Sansa with a pityingly maternal smile, Cersei serenely turned around to head to her place, satisfied.

Oakheart coughed awkwardly, then nodded. “Right. Everyone! Let’s go!” He clapped once then turned back to the stage quickly.

Everyone else shifted away, Myranda squeezing Sansa’s hand reassuringly and Mya patting her shoulder. 

Dontos Hollard was falling over himself contrite. He stared at Sansa as if she were a fresh mug of beer. “Miss Stark, you’re an angel! Oh, I’m so sorry to get you into this mess! I” – 

Her face numb, Sansa absently touched his arm. “It’s all right, Mr. Hollard,” she said in a glum faraway voice. “You didn’t mean to.” She shuffled onto the stage.

Dontos watched his pretty savior with reverence. “ _She_ is Jonquil,” he sighed. 

He gasped as a large hand seized the back of his neck in a vice-like grip. Oh gods, it pinched horribly!

The Hound’s terrible snarling voice was in his ear. “You’ll pay for that, Hollard. Believe me, you’ll fucking pay.” 

He threw Hollard away from him. Hollard took one look into those awful eyes, full of an unspeakable fiery rage. Clegane’s fists were clenched and shaking. 

Hollard moved off quickly, rubbing his neck.  
________________________________________

_Fuck Oakheart, fuck Cersei, and fuck fucking Hollard fuck FUCK._

Sandor breathed heavily.

He hadn’t moved from his position by the curtain. His eyes were glued on the little bird.

That stupid, foolhardy, infuriating, buggering little bird.

Ever since he started working at the opera house, Sandor’s least favorite part was overhearing the damn operas. Loud, droning, grotesque spectacles. Sandor would distract himself with his various duties – barking commands to the other stagehands, lugging props back and forth, and otherwise carrying out Baelish’s less…official wishes. 

But ever since the rehearsals for this opera started, Sandor found himself drawn inexorably to the spot he stood in now.

His eyes were always on the same figure, sitting now in the makeshift brook, a large purple stain on her dress.

_Fuck him._

She did not have many solo lines. A few verses, that’s all, then she’d sing in harmony with Stone and Royce. The rest of the time Cersei and Loras as Florian took over the scene.

Yet those few minutes when he could hear her sing….

Sandor found his desire for those verses was becoming a thirst not unlike that for Dornish Red.

Just…getting to stand there, watching her…watching her fresh, lively face as she disappeared into character, as she sang like a lark.

He’d about lost his breath when he first saw her in that costume just a few minutes ago. All white gauzy material and that fucking neckline. Her hair tumbling over her shoulders, some tendrils curled. 

The makeup was stark and he wasn’t fond of it, but it did make her eyes jump out like unnaturally bright sapphires. He’d hovered over her like a moth a flame – the only flame Sandor would ever hover over.

Beneath it all ran a protective rage. The dress was so light, the neckline so revealing – and she’d be standing there, singing in it in front of everyone! 

He didn’t know how to reconcile his lust with this strange possessive concern, and so he’d alternated between teasing her and snapping at her. Those eyes, those damned artless eyes, staring at him and not understanding his moods.

_Fuck, neither do I, little bird. I don’t understand fuck all anymore._

All he knew was that watching her sing was becoming the only precious bit of relief he had each day.

And Hollard….

Hollard had spoiled this today.

He split his rage equally between the stupid bird for sticking up for Hollard and at Hollard for letting her.

And he was most disgusted with himself for standing by as it happened.

But what the fuck could he do? Call her out as a liar? That would have enraged Oakheart and Cersei even more. So he just stood by useless as Oakheart scolded her, made her tremble with tears. As Cersei twisted the knife even further. 

Sansa hadn’t even looked at him as she walked onstage.

Sandor’s face twisted in wrath as he focused his anger on her. That was just like the stupid bird. He’d watched her these past weeks, watched her character. She just didn’t have a clue how things worked around here. You don’t take the blame for someone like that, you watch out for yourself. However, that was just the sort of fool thing she’d do, was constantly doing like she was some kind of damned heroine from one of these operas.

She was the one who always tried cheering up children in the chorus when they’d start crying, for example.

Or when one of the chorus sopranos left the dressing room with her skirt tucked into her tights, the little bird flew there before anybody but Sandor noticed and feigned complimenting her skirts to dislodge it before the singer could notice.

_Just wait, little bird,_ he’d think. _That sweet little disposition will fade, just as anything good here turns to glittering rot._

The thought never made him smug, however; it made him slightly sick instead.

And so Sandor clung to her singing. That crystalline voice, innocence and longing and something mystical and wintry. He soaked in it.

Through Cersei’s cruel jabs at her, through the manual labor, through carrying out Baelish’s whims…there was her singing.

Something in the audience caught Sandor’s eye now.

Joffrey Baratheon had entered the theater, and was hanging back at the side. His hands were in his pockets inside his elegant jacket.

Sandor hated this little prick. Boy was fucking wrong all over. Sandor had heard about prostitutes he’d visited, and something loathsome about a pregnant cat when Joffrey was little. Even the indomitable Tyrell girl shrank away from him after six months of courtship.

And the cunt’s green eyes were on the little bird.

They mockingly ran over the stain on her dress, but they lingered on her bare shoulders, her cleavage.

The look there on his face, his nasty smile, was enough to make the blood pump so loudly in Sandor’s temples he could barely make out her voice anymore. 

He looked away, determined to ignore the git.

But then his eyes fell on Hollard on the other side of the stage, barely in the wings.

The fool was watching the little bird as well.

Like Joffrey, there was longing in his eyes, but without the malice. Instead a cloyingly slavish look was there, as if he were a piteous damsel gazing at his knight in shining fucking armor.

The look would have been comical to Sandor were it not for the renewed rush of rage he felt.

How dare he look at her like that?

How dare he embarrass her – _her_ – then look at her like she was a buggering piece of art in the King’s Landing Museum?

She sang now, her face showing nothing but the lighthearted delight the opera’s libretto called for. She bravely embraced her role even as those in the wings whispered about the glaring blemish on her costume. Sandor heard faint laughter.

His eyes narrowed in on the obliviously worshiping Hollard.

_He embarrassed her._

Sandor had not felt this particular rage in a long time. He remembered that stinking gambler Tywin Lannister sent him to deal with – and the man’s sneaking fist, making contact with Sandor’s jaw. His beady eyes and indifferent manner had reminded Sandor so suddenly of his brother that a blind rage swept him up and without a second thought he’d let his fist fly right back into that face.

He had not meant to kill him with that punch. Sandor had still been relatively young then, just out of the military. He’d learned a little of what his strength could do in the army, but not the full extent.

As he stared at the limp body and its snapped neck, he finally knew.

And as he stared now at Dontos Hollard and Joffrey Baratheon and Dontos Hollard again, the bird’s voice still in his ears, he felt that blind rage once more.

His hand was balled into a fist, shaking, shaking. 

Preoccupied with thoughts of choking that bloated neck of Hollard’s, he absently ran his finger down the length of rope attached to the curtain.

________________________________________

“Come on, then!” Ygritte called out to the other ballet girls behind her. She corralled the squealing, giggling lot into the empty space between the dance studio and the storage room.

Rehearsals were over, and the day was now closing in on night. A perfect time for ghost stories.

Dontos sat swaying on a stool as the girls gathered in a circle around him.

Dontos Hollard had not a malicious or scheming bone in his body, but he was profoundly thoughtless. His most marked trait was his inability to think ahead. He’d felt remorse at ruining Miss Stark’s dress and getting her in trouble, and of course now he worshiped her blindly, but any lasting lesson he might have taken away from the incident passed him by completely.

Instead of his close call with unemployment awakening him to the fact he should improve his behavior, he felt only a rush of relief. With this relief came the need to celebrate. Quite naturally, this need led to indulging in more beer, more spirits.

And so his bulbous nose glowed red like a cherry as he sat laughing merrily with the ballet girls now. 

They were all clapping and chanting, “Tell us now! Tell us now!”

He flushed, happy. He felt no guilt about the little white lie he told several years ago: that he’d seen the opera ghost.

After all, what else did Dontos Hollard have to impress anybody with? The Hound had his strength, the performers their talent, and everybody else had at least something they could be proud of.

And so, once when he heard some dancers speculate aloud about the ghost, Hollard had quite simply and frankly claimed he’d seen him. Because why not? And because of his singular simplicity, now that it was said and the dancers spread the tale, in Dontos’s mind it became true. He had seen the ghost. The Phantom was real. He was the devil himself.

“Well, all right!” Ygritte called now, smile wide. “Enough waiting! You keep telling us he’s the devil and all that, and full of murderous intrigue and whatnot. But what’s the bloke look like, anyhow?”

A chorus of voices supported Ygritte’s query. They all wanted to know.

Dontos vaguely remembered snarling reminders from the Hound about keeping his mouth shut about the Phantom, but these sweet girls wanted to know so badly! They were all counting on a good story!

And Dontos was so very, very drunk.

Dontos recalled rumors he had heard and let them make their way into his rambling description. “Oh, he’s a fright to see. His face is all twisted in horrible scars. Don’t even look like a face. He’s a giant of a man, and stalks the place to make sure no one goes below.”

“But why?” One of the girls asked.

Dontos blinked. “To guard his dragon eggs, of course.”

He’d overestimated his believability. The girls groaned in dissent.

“There are no dragons anymore!”

“They were never real!”

“Yes, they were! They’ve found fossils under the Red Keep.”

“Please, that’s just a myth! Dragons are as fake as the Others.”

“The Others were real!”  
“No, they weren't!”

_“What’s going on here?”_ The girls shrieked at the low barking voice suddenly in their midst.

The Hound stood there, eyes gleaming angrily.

“It’s dark out. You girls get to your dormitories, go on!”

The gigantic figure of Sandor Clegane, looming over them from the shadows at this time of night, was more than enough for them. The ballet girls did not need to be told twice. They fled the scene, laughing and shrieking.

Sandor glared after them with a contemptuous shudder. He turned to Dontos.

The drunkard swallowed once, backing up to the wall.

Sandor towered over him. His form was silhouetted by the lamp behind him.

“You drunk idiot,” he gnarled. “You were talking about the ghost again, weren’t you?”

The way the dumb man shivered, eyes wide, stoked the flames of Sandor’s fury, which had not died down much in the intervening hours. All he saw was the stain on Sansa’s dress and her downcast eyes.

He slapped Dontos. The man whimpered. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your miserable mouth shut?” His tight growling voice was like some rabid guarddog’s.

Another slap. 

Before Dontos could recover, Sandor’s hands were lifting him up by his shirt collar as always. The Hound’s flaming eyes were so intense Dontos felt himself burned. _“You embarrassed her.”_

Dontos saw the eyes, the scars. In his befuddled, intoxicated state, his own words came back to him: _“His face is all twisted in horrible scars…A giant of a man….”_

A horrible wave of fear gave him a rare burst of strength. With a squealing cry he pushed away from Clegane and ran, stumbling away from the Hound. 

Sandor was calling after him, but Dontos paid him no heed. 

He ran around the corner, down a corridor behind the backdrops. 

He tripped on his own feet just as he was about to turn the corner out to the theater. 

He fell flat on his face. Dazed, he put his hand to his broken nose and saw blood. 

The area around him grew darker. 

He looked behind him. 

He did not have time even to cry out before the figure lunged, looping the lasso quickly around his neck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Dontos. :( As a wise girl once said, he's drunk and silly and useless, but he means no harm.


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh, Sansa, cheer up! It was only a stain. I’m sure everyone’s forgotten it by now,” Margaery comforted the glum young singer as they and Madame Tyrell headed to the theater the next day.

But Sansa could not hide her dread at the prospect of facing Cersei and the rest of the cast today. She envied her friend. There was no major role for contralto in _Florian and Jonquil_ until the end, when as the Mother she joins the chorus of five other gods offstage to welcome Jonquil into the Heavens. As such Margaery was not needed at every rehearsal, so she busied herself singing at private concerts and charity events, while posing for artists and photographers, and the like. 

Sansa was a little jealous that while she herself was suffering under Cersei’s scrutiny, Margaery was able to continue soaking in the King’s Landing high life that Sansa had barely been exposed to yet.

Still, she couldn’t be too bitter when Margaery was so sympathetic. “I assure you, Sansa, with rehearsals just starting to get serious, everyone has far more on their minds than one ruined dress.”

As if on cue, she pushed open the door to the front entrance and the three women were greeted by hubbub at the foot of the stairs. A whole fleet of dancers rushed to and fro, with actors and stagehands milling about, speaking alternately in frantic shouts and whispers.

A few policemen pushed through the mob and up the stairs.

“What on” –

Before Sansa could finish her question, Madame Olenna brought her cane down with a couple loud bangs onto the floor. 

Like Pylos’s Dogs in the experiment with bells, the ballet girls were so conditioned by the sound of the cane that they immediately turned around and stood straight and still, politely waiting for instructions from their dance mistress.

“Now you girls stop this fluttering about,” Olenna said sternly regardless. “One of you tell me what’s going on this instant.”

It was Ygritte who eagerly stepped forward. “It’s Dontos Hollard, ma’am! He’s dead!”

Sansa whitened and gripped onto Margaery’s arm for strength. _“Dead?”_

_Oh gods, that poor man!_

Madame Olenna was far less affected. “Drink finally do him in?”

Ygritte broke into an excited grin, which would have been ghoulish given the circumstances were it not for her naturally jaunty disposition. “No, ma’am! He was hanged! By the Phantom, we think! Old Hollard’s body was found swinging up in the rafters. He’d been gossiping about the Phantom beforehand.”

The ballet girls burst anew into frightened and frankly thrilled chatter.

Another couple thumps from Olenna’s cane. “Quiet, girls, quiet! You all get to the dance studio. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Margaery, come.” Without another word, Olenna gestured with her head toward the managers’ office and Margaery trailed after her, always obedient to her grandmother, at least.

The ballet girls all dispersed, except for Ygritte, who turned back. She craned her neck around the corner to make sure Madame Olenna was out of sight, then she approached the dazed Sansa.

“Hey, cap’n!” She breathed, grabbing Sansa’s arm. “Guess who we all think might be involved? The _Hound!”_

Sansa’s head snapped to hers. “The Hound?” A startling fear made her heart pound.

Ygritte didn’t seem to notice, her bright smile wide. “Aye! See, we was all gathered around Hollard last night as he told us about the Phantom – how he’s an ugly bloke and tall as a mountain! Well, who should come waltzing in telling us all to scat but the Hound: tall and ugly as can be. He was left all alone with Hollard, then first thing this morning the poor cleaning ladies find Hollard’s fat old corpse, swinging away. What do you make of that, eh?”

She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“The police don’t know, do they?” _Sansa Stark, how can that be your first concern? Might be the police_ should _know!_

Ygritte shrugged indifferently. “Don’t know. I sure as hells ain’t telling them, and I can guarantee you none of the other girls will. Never tell a copper nothing if you can help it. Stay out of it, that’s what I say. Ooh! I should check out the crime scene quick before Dame of Thorns catches wise and the cops clear everything out! Ta-ta!” One squeeze of Sansa’s arm and off she sped, leaving her companion pale and confused.

_Dontos Hollard…so silly and drunk, but so sweet in his way, too…._

_And Sandor…._

“The bloke was asking for it.”

Sansa turned, blanching.

Once again, the man she’d just been thinking of was able to sneak behind her without a sound to alert her.

As usual, he was leaning against the wall just behind her. _Those steady eyes, that frank and honest manner…he can’t have done it! He simply can’t have!_ “I warned the man. Told him not to talk.”

He moved in on her, eyes boring into hers. “Let it be a lesson to you, too, little bird, else the beast that did that to him gets his claws on you.”

Sansa knew she should feel more threatened than ever. Here was a tall, strong, disfigured man who had last been seen cornering Hollard, now dead. He’d confessed to killing once before. Now this ominous warning. Margaery’s words, Ygritte’s words, his own words should paint a portrait of guilt.

Yet somehow, Sansa was never so sure of his innocence as she gazed at him now.

She trusted those deep eyes of his, that rough way he had of getting to the truth of any matter.

“What should I do?” She asked in a feeble voice.

He was like stone: serious, direct. “Get out. Leave this place. Don’t come back. Fly home to Winterfell, little bird.”

He stared at her hard one more time. 

Then he turned and left her standing there, shaking.

_Should_ she trust him? Her instincts told her yes, but logic…logic dictated that the last word she should be taking is that of a confessed murderer.

_Fly home to Winterfell, little bird._

She felt split in two. Half of her rebelled strongly against the sentiment; she’d come too far to turn back, and she’d only just achieved her dream to play as Cersei’s understudy. She couldn’t abandon everything when she was on the cusp of success!

But the other half of her was plunged in doubt. Cersei’s coldness and Dontos’s death…who in their right mind _would_ stay in this environment?

She wanted to trust Sandor so badly, but she knew there was someone else she must ask. Someone that she knew intellectually would tell her in the end what was best for her, little as she emotionally believed so.

________________________________________

“I am so glad you decided to come by, Sansa. Do forgive my neglecting you these past weeks. I assume you’re getting by splendidly? You did get my bouquet, did you not?” Petyr Baelish’s smiling glance seared into her.

Sansa sat stiffly and uncomfortably in front of his desk. _Does he have to stare at me so?_ “Oh, yes, Lord Baelish, it was very kind of you. The flowers were beautiful.” A dozen dark, blood red roses were delivered to her at the Tyrells after her casting was announced. The sight and cloying smell of them made her almost as uneasy as the man himself.

“Now, dear. What can I help you with?” He schooled his features into that of the kindly concerned uncle.

Sansa was direct. “Sir, my mother considers you almost a brother. She’s always spoken of you with sincere fondness. I have no one else to turn to. Please, please be frank with me.”

His eyes brightened at her plea. He swallowed his excitement, but it showed in his coiled stance behind his desk. “Yes, dear?”

Sansa searched for the right words for a moment. Then, “Am I safe here?”

He blinked, taken aback. “What’s that?”

Sansa scooted forward in her seat. She stared into his eyes with her blue ones, like her mother’s, but more beautiful, more beautiful. “I’ve been hearing the most terrible things. About…about the Phantom. And now here’s Dontos Hollard’s horrible death! Please,” her voice was strained into a whisper now. There was nothing in her face but genuine appeal. “Please tell me the truth. Am I safe here? Are _any_ of us safe here?”

There was a long moment of silence. Sansa could not read him.

At last he spoke. His voice was low. “Sansa. Do you really want to know the truth about Dontos Hollard?” Very quietly: “Truly?”

She shivered. Nonetheless, she nodded.

He leaned forward. “An accident.”

Sansa sat back, shocked. “What?”

He shrugged. “That’s the truth. I’ve just spoken to the police. There is absolutely no evidence of foul play. Could it be suicide? Possibly. But I doubt it.” Affecting a tactful look, he said regretfully, “I hate to say it, but the man could not hold his drink. I’m afraid it must have led to his tragic end.”

Sansa shook her head, as though that would clear the matter up. “But, no. No. How could it be an accident? The way he was found…and, and I’ve heard other stories about other deaths! A prop master drowned! A dancer, she was hanged, too! How” –

Petyr was standing now, taking her hands in his. “My dear, my dear, my dear. You mustn’t get hysterical. You know what all those were? Accidents.” When she looked to protest, he hushed her again. “No, no. Listen, dear.” He sat again at the edge of his desk, never letting go of her hands. “This house has stood for over a century. It’s gone through much in the meantime, burning down once and then getting rebuilt. Are a handful of unfortunate accidents really that unusual in a span of one hundred years? If it weren’t for the ridiculous Phantom rumors some silly ballerinas made up, would we really be sitting here even discussing this? The prop master was walking home drunk at night by the Blackwater, slipped into the river, and sadly, there you are. The dancer was an unfortunate soul who got maudlin when at the drink and impulsively took her own life. As you can see, my dear, the true culprit here is drink, not some masked killer out of a lurid novel. Doesn’t that make more sense?” He asked softly.

Sansa sat thinking. “I…I don’t know.”

He peered at her with penetrating, sparkling eyes. There was the beginnings of a tender grin on his face. “I think you do, Sansa.”

His manner was so solicitous she couldn’t help but return the smile. “I suppose you’re right,” she admitted at last.

“Good!” He finally released her hands. In good spirits now, he wagged a mock scolding finger at her. “So no more talk of you leaving. I won’t hear of it, young lady.” A new edge came into his voice. “You know, my dear, we really shouldn’t let too much time pass without seeing each other again. I’m responsible for you, you know. I should get to know you better. Let’s go to dinner sometime and talk over your career.”

A flutter of panic in her chest. “I” –

“Of course, of course, you’re too busy with rehearsals right now. But soon, dear. Soon.”

Sansa deliberately ignored the feeling this was a threat more than a promise.

He steered her to the door, his hand on her arm. He opened the door for her. “Oh, Sansa, would you be so kind as to let the young lady outside know she can come in now?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you, dear. And seriously, Sansa: you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

His manner was earnest, his face blandly affirming.

Sansa’s answering smile was true.

She curtseyed and then left. She felt better already.

_He is a kind man after all, a true kind man. It's not his fault he made me uneasy before. It must just be my nerves, remembering his history with Mother. I must be more gracious to him in the future._ With that resolve, she headed to rehearsal.

Inside his office, Baelish straightened his jacket and sat back behind his desk. He brushed up on his correspondence as he waited for the young lady to enter.

Finally she did.

The young ballet dancer stood nervously just inside the office. Her expression was heartbreaking in its weak attempt to look neutral. She was a small girl with bones like twigs. Still, there was something very comely about her small doe-eyed face.

“Ah, come in, miss! Come in!” He pulled the chair out for her.

Obviously unused to such genteel manners, the girl hesitated before complying. Her fright practically vibrated off her in waves.

Petyr was back behind his desk. He folded his hands before him over his papers.

He studied her for a moment with the detached, measuring gaze of a farmer looking over his livestock.

Then a thin, sympathetic smile beneath his mustache. “Well. You know why I asked you here?”

She paused for a moment. She nodded.

In quiet, diplomatic tones, he asked, “Is it true? What I’ve heard? That you’re pregnant?”

A look of pain seized her features. She looked down, gulping.

That was all the answer Baelish needed.

He tilted his head, never taking his eyes away from her.

Then sighing, he leaned back in his chair and assumed a more official but still kindly air. “Well, my dear, I am afraid of course that we can no longer have you in our ballet. I wish I could find a way, but it’s simply impossible.”

Her eyes were wild and hunted as she desperately pleaded with him. “Sir” – 

He held up a hand, stopping her. “Please. Let me finish. I am not a man who would let a girl in your condition go homeless.” 

He smiled warmly.

“I have already found you a place in _another of my establishments.”_

His teeth gleamed pearly white.

A great shiver of despair and repugnance racked her small frame.

She covered her face in her hands.

Baelish wound his pocket watch, whistling softly as she sobbed. He would wait until she spent all her tears before making the necessary arrangements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just my totally unbiased reminder that Baelish is the [in Jean-Ralphio's voice] wooooooooorst! Sorry about that.


	8. Chapter 8

“What about that singer over there, talking to the dancer? The man with curly hair in breeches and the little dark-haired girl? Do you think they’re in love, or is this the first time they’ve ever spoken?”

“I think that’s his wife’s sister.”

“What? Why would you think that?”

“Because I know both of them, Sansa! I’ve sung here since I was thirteen!”

“Oh, that’s not fair! You should have told me. This game only works if you don’t know.”

Myranda lazily rest her chin in her hand, her elbow on her crossed leg. She yawned. “Nothing makes a difference right now. We’ve been waiting for over an hour.” She stared pointedly at the stage where Cersei should be standing for Jonquil’s most popular aria. But the diva was late.

Sansa agreed with Myranda. Here they were in the last two weeks of rehearsals, and Cersei’s lateness was becoming a habit. She had never been _this_ tardy, however.

From where Jonquil’s three sisters sat backstage, Mya groaned loudly. She was sprawled over her chair, head back. “Each year Cersei gets worse and worse! You should just sing the role, Sansa! Your voice blows hers out of the water, anyway.”

Sansa blushed happily as Myranda agreed. 

Most people in the theater agreed. Sansa had by now largely ingratiated herself to the company, singer and stagehand alike. In episodes like these, when Cersei or something else stalled rehearsal, Sansa often came up with little games or contests for those within her vicinity. These little distractions surprisingly succeeded in keeping most everyone’s spirits up for a short time, just as they had with her younger siblings at church. 

Combine this contagious optimism with her ethereal voice, and the majority concluded that the Northern girl possessed just the right amount of talent and social graces to properly lead the company.

No one dared voice this assumption too loudly, lest they stir the lioness’s rage.

“That’s it!” Oakheart at last barked. He’d been pacing the stage steadily for the past hour, brooding over his absent star. The more he brooded the more violent became his strides, his shoulders more hunched. Now whipping off his cap and running stressed fingers through his light brown hair, he announced the end of his vigil. “We need to get this scene underway. It’s imperative the orchestra times their cues with the singing, dammit.” Sighing and bucking up his courage – he knew the risk he took – he looked at Sansa. “Miss Stark, would you be so kind as to fill in for Ms. Lannister, please? We need to get the ‘Jewelry Song’ out of the way.”

Sansa swayed in her seat as Mya and Myranda excitedly bit their tongues and squealed, squeezing Sansa’s arms. The extras behind her pat her back, cheering her on. She was very pale.

_Jonquil… ‘The Jewelry Song’…._

She was in a dream, surely. A beautiful dream that couldn’t really _be._

Could it?

Somehow or another she was on her feet, moving.

No, this couldn’t be real. Sansa Stark from Winterfell could not possibly be standing in the middle of the stage at King’s Landing Opera House. She could not be standing in Cersei Lannister’s place. She could not be singing Jonquil’s role in a rehearsal at King’s Landing. She was not about to sing the “Jewelry Song”. 

She stared at the large jewel box up on the pedestal and the rhinestone treasures within.

 _This_ was real. This prop, this garden set. She repeated these facts to herself like a mantra, but the truth of the matter still did not fully penetrate her mind....

Balon Swann, the broad-chested conductor, raised his baton and the music began.

Now it was real.

Her knees shook. She couldn’t do this.

_Oh, shut up, you ninny! For Gods’ sake, this is just one rehearsal! One song! If you can’t handle this, how in the Seven do you ever hope to continue understudying Cersei? This can’t be scarier than your audition!_

These mental admonitions only made her feel worse. 

They were approaching her first line now. She needed to get herself together.

Her eyes swam desperately across the seats and in the wings, looking unconsciously for –

There! There he was.

Sandor stood near one of the front exits, at the edge of the front row. He was in his typical posture: large frame leaned sideways against the wall, arms crossed.

She could just see the sparkle of his eyes from the shadows.

And suddenly glory itself flew out of her throat.

Those watching were delighted. Sansa Stark not only knew the blocking and the verses perfectly, but her voice, her acting! Those who had been with the theater for more than a season were so jaded that her performance was doubly compelling. So natural, so unaffected!

They had forgotten that Jonquil was just a girl, just becoming acquainted with her beauty and how it can attract men. They forgot she was thoughtless, giddy, and good-hearted beneath her flirtatious rambunctiousness. 

They remembered now. They saw Jonquil as if for the first time.

 _“O Jaehossi!”_ When Sansa sang out her first line in High Valyrian with candid joy and wonder, right away the onlookers were transported to the garden with Jonquil. Like her, they were spellbound by these gorgeous trinkets (which up close looked gaudy and cheap as most costume jewelry did). As she tried them on and looked herself over in the glass, they shared her vain but innocent pleasure at the pretty, auburn-haired, blue-eyed picture she made. Like Jonquil, they forgot all her curiosity about who could have delivered the jewel box, too taken up with such pretty glamour.

But eventually the company also saw more clearly the tragic foreshadowing of the piece: how this sweet vision would soon be seduced by the handsome knight who was really the plain fool Florian disguised by the Stranger, and how Florian’s love for her would spell her doom.

They felt for Jonquil as they never had when played methodically, precisely, and heartlessly by Cersei.

Sansa twirled and beamed and sang, sang, sang.

Her voice evoked images of a lark soaring happily and heedlessly through this springtime garden. 

Sansa lost herself in Jonquil’s happiness, clutching the jewels to her heart.

But it was not the eyes of Loras as Florian she saw.

It was a pair of eyes full of warmth, sadness, conflict, and a rare protective familiarity that dwelled now in her heart.

For the owner of these eyes, watching her truly claim the stage for the first time since her audition was a revelation. The experience was indescribable to Sandor.

The rolled up rug he’d been carrying offstage to the corridor lay forgotten at his feet.

He felt something hot buzz deep in his chest and squeeze his heart. The back of his throat tickled. His breath came in heavy huffs. She was so fucking radiant and happy and alive – 

This sensation: happiness?

Was Sandor Clegane happy?

Was this bird-like trilling making the big fucking Hound, brutal and careless, happy?

He shook his head. He’d never been happy. He had no experience with the emotion. But his body vibrated and hummed with every one of her golden notes and stupid bloody tears were stinging his eyes now, and he felt his lips tug upward a little, and – 

_“What is going on here?”_

The music stopped. 

Stillness. Icy stillness. 

Sansa looked like a shocked statue of herself.

Cersei stood at the center of the aisle, cold expressionless eyes locked onstage. On Sansa.

Joffrey stood behind his mother, his devilish grin nasty and hidden by her shoulder.

In stark contrast to the porcelain-white Sansa, Oakheart’s face flushed deep red. “Ms. Lannister!” He stammered. “Um, we really needed to get the sound test underway with the orchestra, you see, and” –

Ignoring her director, Cersei marched up the stage steps. 

Those experienced with drink spotted the slight waver to her walk that she valiantly tried to hide with her long strides. 

Sansa did not catch on until the prima donna was right in front of her. The redness in Cersei’s glistening eyes and the faint whiff beneath her mouthwash gave her away. _Gods, does everyone in this theater have a drinking problem,_ Sansa thought detached through her terror as Cersei stared and stared at her.

Sansa opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Cersei tilted her head, slitting her eyes at Sansa. “What, suddenly lost your voice, little girl? You certainly had it a moment ago. We all heard it.”

In her intoxicated state, Cersei had apparently lost the discreet low volume she’d usually use to spit out insults. Her voice was still smooth and deceptively sweet, but every person present could hear her clearly. “I see a woman cannot feel under the weather and come in a little late without Baelish’s latest whore stepping in to displace her.” She swayed toward her until they were practically nose to nose. “You’re a cheap, flashy little thing. Everyone knows you’re only here because you bedded Littlefinger and probably my disgusting imp brother. You belong in the brothels with the rest of them.” Cersei ignored the collective gasp at her words. Oakheart was now pulling at her arm, urgently imploring her to take a rest in her dressing room.

Cersei only shook him off and pointed an elegant gloved finger into Sansa’s face. “Enjoy your pathetic victory while you can, little dove. For as long as I’m here, you will never, ever sing so in front of an audience.” She spat at Sansa’s feet, just missing them. _“Never.”_

She stumbled slightly but then righted herself, terrified of jeopardizing her dignity. She at last allowed Oakheart to steer her offstage. She never cast a look behind her.

The quiet that enveloped the theater once Cersei spoke evaporated. Sansa heard the rise of whispers all around her like a flood rushing in.

Her ears rang.

It was like the first blow received in a fight – you’re too stunned to feel anything, only the shock.

And so she stood, rooted to the spot and immobile as stone.

Sandor felt more than enough for both of them. There was no surprise, no shock. Only a deep, dull, heart-wrenching resignation.

_It was your fault, dog. You dared to feel happy. That right there was the little bird’s doom. You play with a toy soldier and your face gets pressed into the fire; the sweet bird sings and a lioness devours her._

_The only surprise here is that you didn’t see it coming._

What might have been a smile just moments before turned into that wry jerk of his lips again.

He studied the girl from where she still stood.

One thing did surprise him:

Her straight proud posture. There were tears in her eyes but they would not fall.

The wolf was in her stance, not the devoured bird.

He watched as her fellow singers rushed to her side, comforting her. He saw her distant gratitude, her face oddly serene as she walked slowly offstage. 

Her head was up, not downcast.

A rush of pride overtook Sandor.

Then indignation and rage on his little bird’s behalf.

But what can a Hound do? Challenge Cersei to a duel for Sansa Stark’s honor?

His mood darkening to utter blackness, Sandor turned and left.

 

Sansa spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze. Oakheart visited her in the dressing room and apologized, letting her take the rest of the day off. She’d agreed numbly. She dressed mechanically, refusing to let herself feel anything.

Yet she couldn’t help the one bitter thought swirling around her brain.

_Will I forever be humiliated here? Is it my fate to play the role of punching bag for anyone who sees fit to abuse me?_

Cersei’s accusations about Baelish and Tyrion made Sansa physically sick. To think of herself in that light…Sansa was a lady, born and bred. A _young_ lady, the sort who is never even supposed to know of such words as Cersei hurled at her today. 

She remembered now little remarks from her mother’s friends and various Winterfell matrons whenever the subject of the opera came up. The arts were entertaining enough, they’d say, but low, common, cheap. Not to be taken seriously. Only bad people took part in such a life.

Never before had the memory of their disapproval pressed so hard on Sansa.

Still there was the memory of singing just now – that, that wasn’t dirty or low. That was…beauty. Lightness, _purity._

No one could take that away from her, she thought with determination as she buttoned her jacket and smoothed her skirt. Not society’s disdain or Cersei’s jealousy. _No one_ could take away the beautiful freedom Sansa felt as she sang.

She left her dressing room and quickly headed toward the exit, trying to hide her face from view. It was doubtful she’d run into anyone. Evening was approaching, and everyone was either gone or staying late to make up for the brief hiatus after Cersei’s outburst.

Even so, Sansa didn’t want to take any chances of running into someone. She was too full of her angered jumble of sad, confused feelings to properly take in anymore sympathy, anymore –

However, Sansa did meet someone.

Joffrey Baratheon.

He was dressed immaculately as always, fresh rose in his button-hole. His face showed honest gladness and contrition at meeting her. “Ah! Miss Stark! I was just heading to your dressing room to see you.” His forehead creased in sympathy. “I wish to apologize quite sincerely for my mother’s behavior. It wasn’t like her at all. The poor woman’s been feeling under the weather lately. All this is quite a strain on her, you know. She’s felt so much pressure since my father’s death, and it’s started showing here and there in such displays as you’ve just unfortunately experienced.”

He took her hand: lightly, respectfully. “I implore you, please do not take what she said personally. I beg you to forget her words and forgive her. She was not herself. If she were, she would be here in my place asking you the same. So for her sake, I beg your forgiveness.” 

He bowed.

Sansa answered him with a wide grateful smile.

“Yes…of course,” was all she could say, voice soft.

Contented, he now offered her his arm. “You are too good, miss. Would you now do me the great honor of allowing me to escort you to the carriages outside?” He leaned in and said with confidential tact, “My mother’s gone home for the night. We will not encounter her.”

Such noble yet straightforward manners! Such humble kindness!

Her smile widening ever more, Sansa accepted his arm.

Joffrey spoke to her quite congenially, apologizing again and praising her voice, her acting. She felt his eyes on her, but whenever she glanced at him, his look was merry but continually respectful. 

She remembered Margaery’s warning words, but she justified this to herself quite succinctly. As fair-minded as Margaery was, she was still human, and how many people after a messy end to a relationship think back fondly on their former lovers? Every story has more than one side. It could just be they were not suited and brought out the worst in the other. Sansa was sure that must happen all the time. Two perfectly nice people on their own simply did not mix well together sometimes. Surely that must be the case here.

However, there was something else gnawing away at her as they walked together down the darkened corridor.

She watched him as he talked on happily. She looked at his gentle profile, his golden hair. He was just an inch or so taller than her.

She felt the soft material of his jacket from where her hand was tucked into his elbow.

She felt his slender arm.

She felt…no real heat and no real cold coming off his skin. He felt…normal.

Sansa shifted, oddly dissatisfied.

She remembered the ghost of another forearm, far bulkier in its rolled up sleeve, with tanned skin and a slight sheen of sweat from its labor. This forearm was covered in dark hair and emitted a heat like a brazier. The pleasant lilt of Joffrey’s voice gave way in her imagination to a rough, deep, bear’s growl of a voice coming at a much taller height. This voice in her mind was mocking and rude and…warm. Familiar.

Sansa realized this pretty young man with his ingratiating manners bored her.

She was quietly mortified at the realization. Once upon a time, how she would have swooned at such a gentleman taking a kindly interest in her! Back in Winterfell, everyone would have considered Joffrey Baratheon a perfect match. Despite his mother’s position at the opera house, his father’s family was quite respectful, his father Ned’s best friend. Not to mention, Joffrey’s uncle Stannis was Westeros’s prime minister!

Yes, this match would be more than ideal, more than the Starks could ever dream for their eldest daughter.

So why did the idea now only bring a slight queasiness to Sansa’s stomach? She found herself about as attracted to him as to a raw carrot.

She scolded herself sharply. _Nonsense. It’s only the prospect of Cersei as a mother-in-law that is making me shudder so._

Besides, wasn’t she getting a little ahead of herself? This was only her second conversation with the young man, and he was simply doing the gentlemanly thing by apologizing and escorting her outside. Why build an imaginary courtship and marriage out of that?

With all this in mind, she determined to make herself as agreeable as possible, to enjoy his kind attentions. She smiled and laughed at some pleasantry he made. They were now a couple feet from the exit.

Her hand was no longer in his elbow. His hand was on the small of her back.

That was all right, she supposed. Maybe a bit familiar, but it’s a gesture of support. Caring.

He was starting to press a little hard, however.

She tossed her head defiantly, chiding herself. _Nonsense_ , her mind repeated. _Nonsense._

He shared a quite amusing anecdote. Her laughter was genuine.

Then his hand lowered to her bustle.

She froze.

They were a foot from the doorway now.

His hand pressed into the material, pressed into her rear.

She whirled around, staring at him wide-eyed.

That crafty gleam she’d noticed the day of her audition was blazing out of his eyes now. His face stretched into a lion cub’s ravenous grin. “Don’t be so shy, Sansa!” He wheedled. “It’s all right, no one comes back here this time of night. Let’s have a go, right?”

He grabbed her bosom with both hands, cupping the sides of her breasts painfully.

Enraged and frightened, she pushed him away from her. “How _dare_ you?”

This couldn’t be happening. 

Maniacal pique animated his features, turning them into something vaguely inhuman in his put-upon rage. “How dare _you_ , you little tart? You do as I say!” He backed her into the wall hard, his hands digging into her arms.

“Let go of me!” She yelled. 

He only laughed in the same pleasant and lilting tones. He dug his fingers into the flesh of her arms harder, harder.

Through her indignant and scared tears, she saw his gleaming eyes and wide smile. He…he was enjoying himself. He was taking some sort of sadistic joy from her discomfort.

This awoke something fierce within her. Her blood boiled.

She saw Lady’s yellow eyes.

With all her might, she kicked her boot into Joffrey’s shin.

He cried out in pain, backing up and holding the shin in both hands, hopping on his other foot.

Eyes glowing, Sansa’s foot struck again, at the other shin.

He repeated his wincing actions, with the other shin now.

Sansa pushed him one more time and ran away, out the exit.

Rubbing his smarting shins, Joffrey’s rage rose. He snarled. “Bitch!” He straightened himself. She probably hadn’t made it to the row of carriages yet. His hands itched to leave marks on her pretty white neck. _“Bitch!”_

He limped toward the door.

He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

Miffed at the interruption to his intentions, Joffrey turned to confront whomever it was.

His eyes went round as a child’s and a small whimper escaped him.

The figure descended on him, rope in hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing violence ahoy, inspired mostly by a scene from the 1989 Phantom of the Opera film starring Robert Englund! Be warned!

Sansa was thankful the Tyrells had plans that evening and weren’t home. It was no longer a matter of not wishing to speak to anyone; she simply _couldn’t_ now. She rushed upstairs and collapsed on her bed, shaking with sobs.

She’d been so afraid as she ran, as she tracked down a free carriage. So afraid he would be at her heels.

Thank the Gods he’d apparently tired of his little game with her. 

She calmed down by degrees. Her heart ceased racing so violently, and she was able to breathe normally again. Very slowly she wiped away her tears and dressed for bed. She blew out her candle and turned over, bunching the blankets all around her. She’d once told Bran when he was very little that the demons of the dark Old Nan spoke of wouldn’t get him if he stayed beneath his blankets.

Right now she felt the same way. Here, at least, under all her covers in her own room at the Tyrell home, no spiteful words or grasping hands or sadistic laughter could reach her –

Just before she drifted off to an uneasy sleep her eyes flew open.

 _Tomorrow._ What awaited her tomorrow?

Would…would Joffrey tell? Tell his mother?

Of course he’d lie and say she attacked him unprovoked, or else say she was the one who made advances on him and then attacked when he so nobly turned her down.

Her throat constricted.

If he did…that would most certainly end her career.

More tears streamed down her face. It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t _fair._ Why…why didn’t Margaery tell her just exactly what Joffrey was like? She’d said he was awful and a pest, but not like _this_. Conversely, how could Margaery even stomach talking about him at all if she experienced similar treatment?

But ah, Sansa thought. Maybe Joffrey never went quite that far with Margaery. The Tyrells were an incredibly influential family in their artistic sphere, every bit as much as Cersei. Maybe he knew there would be hell to pay if he treated one of their brood such.

When it came to Sansa, however, who was she, really? Her family had an old name but carried little influence this far South, and she had none of her people here. Baelish said he was her protector; however, Sansa was coming to the slow realization those were just words, words that slipped through her fingers like water.

Yes, Sansa had no one to speak her case for her if Joffrey decided to take revenge on her reputation. Baelish might be able to do a little if he felt so inclined, but Sansa heard he was under Tywin Lannister’s thumb. Joffrey’s grandfather.

She shrieked into her pillow as she concluded her career was doomed.

 

The next morning Sandor finished nailing the carpet down in the corridor. Honestly, the task could have waited, but he was tackling it now anyhow.

He ignored the pounding in his head. He hadn’t gotten as drunk as he did last night in a good while. 

So yes, this task could have waited. His raging hangover certainly would have preferred it. Something unconscious drove him here.

Sansa walked down this corridor every morning to get to her dressing room.

As he sat drinking in the bar after Sansa’s latest humiliation, he determined not to dwell on her anymore. His fixation with her was ridiculous, irrational, and just made no fucking sense. He was a nasty old mutt and she a wide-eyed sweet simpleton, more than fifteen years his junior. Closer to twenty.

He wiped his forehead then cringed as his hand brushed the bruise by his temple.

That’s right. He vaguely recalled a brawl of some sort in that same bar. He’d no idea now what the fight was about or who started it, and he probably hadn’t known at the time, either. All he could remember was each punch that landed on whichever drunk earned his ire was instead directed at himself – _this_ punch was for how drawn he was to her, _this_ for how he stood in the wings memorizing every line of her face, _this_ for his childish delight in her voice –

He was determined to pummel his feelings to dust. Kill them.

Yet here he was, in the corridor he knew she’d appear in. Against his will, his eyes kept wandering to the hallway’s entrance. He scarcely realized that was what he was doing.

Then she entered. 

She looked like she hadn’t slept, which did not surprise Sandor. What made him leap to his feet and go to her without a second thought was the terrible hunted fear in her large staring eyes. Gone was the composed wolf from yesterday.

“What is it, girl?” He couldn’t help the wave of warmth he felt at the glance of glad relief she gave him. “Did something happen?”

She opened her mouth wordlessly once or twice, then blurted out, “I’ve had the most terrible night. After Cersei yelled at me and I got ready to go…I ran into her son, Joffrey.” 

All at once a hot flash of anger seared into Sandor and he imagined all sorts of ways to torture the Baratheon boy: slicing his jugular, breaking his limbs, good old-fashioned punching like last night…the thought of him near her, and causing her such fear….

“What happened?” His voice was very quiet.

Instead of answering him she tilted her head, suddenly taking him in. Her delicate fingers hovered over his bruise. “Are you all right?”

He scowled. “Just a drunk tussle, girl.”

“Sandor” –

She was both scolding and concerned.

He grabbed her wrist. “Don’t forget propriety, little bird. You don’t want the wrong people to hear you address the dog by his first name.” His eyes grew darker. “Now tell me what that cunt Baratheon did.”

She told him in halting words.

She shivered with a new fear as his pupils dilated as she talked. Lady once looked this way before she pounced at a passing rabbit.

“…Anyway, he at least didn’t follow me out to the carriages. I was so afraid.” Her free hand fiddled restlessly with the folds in her skirt.

Now that she’d finished her tale he looked calmer. He released her wrist. She did not notice his tightly clenched fists, however. “You should have taken my advice, little bird, and left.” 

She sighed. “I was thinking of that. It looks like everything is pointing that way, doesn’t it? Cersei, Joffrey…” _What Mother and the other Winterfell ladies think…._

She rubbed her arms. “And of course, I may have no choice. That’s what’s really scaring me now.” She entreated him desperately. “Oh, Sandor, what if Joffrey tells Cersei?”

That hadn’t occurred to Sandor, but now that it did….

The likelihood Cersei wouldn’t destroy the little bird’s career was slight.

And Sandor couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ lie to her. 

But he didn’t need to say anything. Sansa saw the repressed sympathy in his deep eyes and that little twitch in his cheek. She knew what that meant. She bowed her head. She sniffed, and he could just see the slight wetness on her cheeks.

_Don’t comfort her, dog. You don’t know how, and that won’t help her anyway. Be hard. Let her see the truth._

Yet he couldn’t conjure any cruelty into his voice. “It’s not too late to leave on your own terms, little bird. Get out now. Go back North, to your parents. Forget all this. Go now.”

Her eyes flashed up to his, and he saw in their brightness that despite everything she did not want to leave, not truly.

The look in her eyes suddenly changed. They were searching. He felt like some ancient Northern spirit was sizing him up – but a gentle spirit, full of sad yearning. 

“Is that what you want? For me to leave?” Her voice was very soft. 

She was so close to him. She smelled faintly of lemon and vanilla. Her skin….

The door swung open and Sandor readied himself. They might just find out the little bird’s fate right here and right now.

Sansa turned around. Her chest clenched painfully.

Cersei was walking toward them.

 _You’re a Stark, a Tully,_ Sansa told herself. _Two proud old families. Whatever happens, you can survive this. This horrid woman cannot,_ will not _break you._

Cersei was a few inches from her. Sansa held her breath.

…The older singer cast her one disdainful glance and passed on, into the backstage area.

Sansa let out the breath she’d been holding.

That glance was no different from those Cersei usually gave her. It was hateful and cold, but not with the violence of a mother whose son told her he was mistreated.

Sansa looked at Sandor. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

All of a sudden she let out a hysterical laugh. She covered her mouth.

Blushing and still giggling slightly, she rushed off, leaving Sandor standing irked and confused staring after her.

 

Like Sandor, Cersei’s head buzzed from yesterday. As she sat at the vanity in her dressing room, she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes were bleary. The powder just hid the dark circles around them.

Cersei Lannister was forty-two years old, but the press believed her still in her thirties. Given her excellent bone structure and still fully golden hair, most of the time that was believable.

But staring at herself now, Cersei wasn’t so sure.

She poured herself another drink. There was an odd tapping sound coming from somewhere in her dressing room, and she needed distraction from it. 

All sounds were heightened after such a night she had.

As the liquid poured down her throat and warmed her cheeks, she let her head fall back, her eyes closed.

In moments like these, she could almost go back. Go back to the days when she first entered the opera house, before she realized what a threat… _she_ was. The freedom away from Father’s coldly calculating eyes. The courtesy and admiration of the audience. And Jaime…Jaime was close by. Yes, in that brief period before she was aware of the Stark girl and before Cersei became infatuated with Rhaegar, she almost had everything. She had the man she loved and an admirable career. The lioness was queen of this metropolitan jungle.

But then the wolf tore her heart out and the dragon scorched it.

Cersei quickly kicked back the rest of her drink.

And now the wolf was back, in the form of a little dove.

It was the dove’s fault Cersei made a spectacle of herself the day before. Although Cersei never quite recovered from her humiliation at the hands of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, she’d at last regained a sense of control. Control always brought her some semblance of peace.

But now….

She swallowed bitter tears. Now the Stark girl had come to represent everything that had gone wrong in the diva’s life. Everything wrong in _her._

Cersei felt a deep wave of self-loathing. She should be stronger. Father always said the greatest weapon you could give your enemy is letting them know how much you hate them. Obvious hatred is a form of weakness, he’d say. 

She’d figured her cool, indifferent contempt during rehearsals was a perfect example of how to show your disdain for your enemy with dignity and class.

But now…after yesterday….

She shuddered at the memory. How could she have let the insipid little wretch bring that out of her? The girl was weak, stupid. Yet the sight of her singing Jonquil’s role with Lyanna’s voice…

She was a threat in a way her aunt never was.

During Lyanna’s tenure at the opera house, Cersei could comfort herself that she herself was by far the more classically beautiful girl, the more presentable lady. Lyanna Stark, with her wild gaiety and dark Northern looks, was no match for the golden Lannister goddess. 

Sansa Stark, however, _was_ a lady.

And she _was_ beautiful: very beautiful. Cersei wondered with dread if one day Sansa might even eclipse her own beauty.

A beautiful lady singing with Lyanna’s voice. Cersei’s nightmare.

Cersei absently touched the necklace she always wore. It was her mother’s necklace.

But Mother was gone. And Jaime…her whole body shook, as it always did when she recalled her twin brother.

Jaime was gone with that mannish suffragette. He could not have chosen a better way to insult her than with that gigantic cow.

That he preferred Brienne Tarth to her….

His desertion of her was like a fresh wound, one that would never heal.

There was no mother, no Jaime. Cersei had no one to confide in, no one to trust.

Her late husband certainly was never a confidant. Gods, she was so grateful he was gone. Her first pure moment of happiness in years was when she found him stooped over in his chair at the breakfast table, cold.

And of course, Cersei could not confide in Tyrion. Her mother’s murderer, that sick little pervert. She smirked as she thought that back in the day, they would have used Tyrion in the opera for comic relief, the only fitting place for a disgusting little dwarf. He was not worthy to play the role of manager here.

No, Cersei would not deign trust him.

Cersei did not have anyone except for….

Softening, she tenderly picked up a picture frame, running her hand gently over the image.

A blond little boy and girl stared back happily at her.

Tommen and Myrcella. Her sweet cubs. The lights of her life.

There was no stiff sourness to her face as she gazed at them, as she laughed softly at the sight of Tommen struggling to hold onto Mr. Pounce.

No one would have disliked Cersei seeing her now. For once her outer beauty was matched by a glow from within.

Her babies were the only reason she did not fling herself from the opera’s rooftop.

Bitterly, she could not even think of them without a shadow falling over her happiness.

She glanced at this shadow now: the picture of Joffrey, situated next to Tommen and Myrcella’s.

The softness did not flee her face entirely, but an unpleasant anxiety pinched her features, thinned her lips.

Joffrey.

How could her love with Jaime create two of the dearest, sweetest children alive, and yet Joffrey, too…?

Her eldest child was her only comfort in the early years of her marriage. She’d been so flattered when the handsome Robert Baratheon called on her shortly after his physical and mental recovery from the Scandal. Her delight in his dark handsome looks very slowly displaced her frustrated feelings for Rhaegar, almost even her ever conflicted feelings for Jaime. Robert proposed not long after their courtship commenced.

At least someone who fell under Lyanna’s spell was able to eventually see that Cersei was the superior woman. This touched Cersei.

Yet on their wedding night, when he called out Lyanna’s name while inside of her, Cersei realized that wasn’t the case at all.

He was just trying to forget, to get as far away from Lyanna as possible. He had failed. The memory of that dark-haired witch haunted Robert for the rest of his life, as his waistline grew and he neglected Cersei in favor of whores. He was drunk from the start of their courtship, something she hadn’t noticed then, blinded by his beauty. As he grew fatter and cruder, the last of her fantasies shattered around her.

Perhaps she had only been a form of revenge for Robert, revenge on the dead Lyanna and her lover with Lyanna’s enemy.

Cersei was never a person to her husband, and so he ceased representing anything to her but a disgusting fat blockage.

At least Cersei had Joffrey to comfort her in those days. What a sweet, jolly little baby he was.

Perhaps the biggest heartbreak of all was witnessing what that merry little fellow became. The twisted cruelty within him was almost like a dark reflection of all the mistakes she’d made in her life.

And yet….

She loved him.

Like she loved Tommen and Myrcella, she loved Joffrey.

She stared at his picture with the determined adoration only a mother could possess.

He hadn’t come home last night. He’d probably stayed over at one of his clubs, or maybe a brothel.

_I won’t give up on you, Joffrey. Maybe I’m a bit to blame; I always taught you to win, not to be kind. Kindness is a weakness. But…maybe I can bring you back from the brink. Maybe._

Her children. The only reason she still fought for life. Even Joffrey….

Where was that infernal tapping coming from?

The alcohol failed at dulling the sound. Some hanger must be knocking against the closet door. She called out for her maid.

Oh, that was right, it was laundry day. Her maid wasn’t here just yet.

Rolling her eyes, Cersei stood and walked over to the closet and opened it herself.

She heard screaming. It was unworldly, almost ethereal: like some fabled creature howling to the wind.

She did not realize it was her own voice screaming.

She did not realize because she was unable to take in anything but her son’s purple face, strangled in the noose. He was propped up in the closet. His limp swinging arm was the culprit, knocking lifelessly against the closet door.

The rose in his button-hole had started to wilt.

Joffrey’s corpse fell onto his screaming mother.

 

Tyrion stood with Varys and Baelish onstage. They folded their hands respectfully behind Chief Inspector Barristan Selmy as he addressed the entire company in sober tones.

Through his detached fog Tyrion realized that even a man not involved in the arts like Selmy had vague connections to the Scandal. His wife Ashara was considered society’s greatest beauty back in her day, and she was also the best friend of Elia Martell and the sister of Arthur Dayne -- Rhaegar Targaryen’s best friend.

Arthur had also disappeared the night of the fire. The popular belief was that upon hearing what happened, he took on as his holy mission to track down Gregor Clegane and avenge his fallen friend. Just like some errant knight of old, Tyrion thought dully. Many people assumed he probably had succeeded in tracking down Gregor, but that the Mountain easily disposed of the smaller man and hid the body.

Sometimes it seemed all of King’s Landing, _all of the world_ still reeled from that fateful night.

Now the opera house was embroiled in yet another Scandal.

Littlefinger could not cow the older policeman, and so Selmy spoke to the company frankly despite Baelish’s wish to soften the truth. For unlike with Dontos and the other so-called accidents, there was no way Baelish could twist this particular tragedy thusly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I advise precaution,” Selmy said. “Although we’ve pressured Lord Baelish to close the opera during our investigation” – he turned disapproving eyes to the bland Baelish – “It appears your opera will go on anyway. But I assure you, my men and I will give this case our most vigilant attention. Still, we strongly suggest that you move in groups and keep your dressing rooms locked at all times, even when inside.”

He droned on and Tyrion’s attention wandered. For once he had no choice but to agree with Littlefinger: the show really must go on. They couldn’t afford it not to.

Although Baelish had purportedly earned his post by impressing Tyrion’s father with his accounting skills, in truth the opera house’s funds were rapidly dwindling. This was not helped by the constant payments to the Phantom – whom Tyrion had no doubt was really Baelish, collecting more money for himself on the side. 

No, the show would go on, but without a certain key member of the cast.

Selmy had finished his speech and left with his men to investigate the crime scene once more. Baelish stepped forward and spoke.

Respectful solemnity filled his words. “My dear cast, I know we are all in shock now. It will take a while for Joffrey Baratheon’s death to truly sink in. The idea that someone exists capable of tormenting our dear Ms. Lannister this way, to snuff out such a young life, is indeed horrible. Only time will heal these wounds. But let me lend my voice to the Chief Inspector’s: you are all safe here.”

Tyrion felt like vomiting at Petyr’s paternal front. Yes, people were in shock, but no one so much as Cersei.

 _Cersei_. For the first time Tyrion could really remember, his heart almost broke for his sister. The way she screamed incoherently, clutching her dead child to her, would have moved the coldest heart in Westeros. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her keening moan was like that of some dying animal’s.

And Joffrey, that disturbed young man. Tyrion had detested his nephew, but still he couldn’t help the slight regret at his gruesome murder. Any chance of the boy redeeming himself someday was gone.

Would Cersei ever recover from such trauma? She was practically in a catatonic state when the police took her home. But she was strong, his sister. She had already survived so much. He had no doubt she would eventually emerge again, more bitter and spiteful than ever, but all the more determined to fight back. She always did.

But for now….

Baelish continued. “…And so while our diva recovers from her heartbreak, we must soldier on for her sake.” His pale green eyes landed on the Stark girl, sitting white and still. “That is why our own Miss Sansa Stark will be taking the role of Jonquil when the opera debuts, and continue until our dear Ms. Lannister returns to her post.”

The girl looked as if Baelish had punched her in the stomach. She hunched forward slightly in her seat.

A few people clapped weakly before confusedly dropping their hands, looking away and coughing. 

Tyrion wondered if Cersei would still be suspicious of Sansa Stark’s cunning nature if she could see her now. Instead of boasting a smirk of triumph like the portrait Cersei had painted of her, she instead sat staring bleakly and glassy-eyed as if diagnosed with something terminal.

This girl might have ambition, that is true, but clearly not so voracious that this is how she wanted to get ahead.

As Baelish moved on to other pertinent matters, Tyrion spied Sansa’s blue eyes wander from him to another figure, standing by the curtain.

The Hound. His face was grave as always, unreadable. But there was a spark in the stagehand’s eyes as they bored into the girl’s that was filled with something…angry? Territorial?

Worried?

Tyrion frowned and would have continued studying this odd silent interaction if Varys’s smooth voice wasn’t suddenly whispering to him. “A tragedy, of course, but at least _he_ will be pleased.”

Tyrion turned sharply to him.

His fellow manager simply stared serenely ahead, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. Tyrion almost wondered if he’d imagined it.

 

Sandor spent the rest of the day showing the police around – avoiding the places Baelish had tactfully advised the Hound to avoid. He felt sick at his own unquestioning obedience. 

It was evening now, and while Sandor usually stayed later than this, tonight he wanted to be as far away from this horror show as possible. Maybe that bar again, if they’d let him back in….

He left out the stagehands’ back entrance, shrugging his jacket on, adjusting his cap. Evening dyed the area by the back entrance a dark misty blue.

Gods, but he needed a drink.

He’d only just finished descending the steps when he heard her. “Sandor?”

He turned, bewildered.

The little bird stood there in her cloak, her hood up. Her hand was slightly raised, like one who approaches a wounded animal.

She’d –

She’d waited for him.

While her expression was more composed than this morning, an even greater horror spilled out of her eyes. “Sandor….” She repeated.

“Seven Hells, girl,” he said in a rapid voice as he sped up to her. “What the fuck are you doing out here alone at this time of night? It’s not safe, particularly after what happened. It’s cold as fuck, too.”

Not conscious of what he was doing, he pulled her cloak tighter over her shoulders.

“I needed to see you.”

He was immediately on guard, suspicious. “Why?” He barked out. He refused to trust her sweet tone. 

She was too full inside to be intimidated. Her lips trembled, though not with tears. Her eyes were quite dry, though they sparkled in the darkening night. “I’m afraid.”

The frustration from the day’s events seeped into him. Foolish damn girl. “If you’re so afraid, will you finally do what you know is best: leave?”

Again her gaze searched him. “You never answered me before. Is that what you want?”

He was confused and scared and anxious. Why…why should she care if it’s what he wanted or not? Why should she ask it in that gentle tone, with that melting fucking expression?

His shoulders raised like a cornered animal’s. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I want. It’s you that matters here. Your safety. It’s safest if you _leave_.”

Sansa shook her head, looking down. “No. No, I can’t leave now, not even if I wanted to. The company…the company needs me. Everyone’s depending on me. I can’t let them down.”

 _“Fuck everyone.”_ Desperation made him harsh. “Fuck it, it ain’t worth your life, little bird.”

“Officer Selmy” –

“Oh, aye, Selmy. Sure. Stake your faith in him. Go on. Stake your faith in anything but common sense, I guess.” Bitterness racked him. 

She was looking down again. She was the very definition of vulnerability – as if the evening breeze would damage her, blow her away.

Yet she raised her head and there was nothing but resolution in her proud features. “I must stay.”

She smiled weakly. “But I’m still afraid.” She shrugged and laughed sadly at herself.

So much painful warmth filled his chest that once again against his will he found himself acting like some bloody sap. He reached a hand out and just barely traced her cheek – her soft, cool cheek – with his calloused fingers. “Then don’t worry, little bird. I’ll keep you safe.”

He was going to drop his hand but she suddenly caught it in hers. She kept it there at her cheek. Her eyes never left his. She leaned her cheek into his hand as if her very sanity depended on the reassuring rough warmth there.

He swallowed with difficulty.

“Why…why did you wait for me?” He asked again.

Her eyes caressed his face with wonder.

Then moving with slow grace she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him.

Despite the impulse that apparently inspired the act, it was not a hasty, clumsy peck; nor was it the sensual kiss of an experienced lover. It was urgent, passionate, but also sweet, yearning. 

After a few moments of pressing her lips to his, she then turned away and hurried off into the night.

Just like that morning, Sandor stood staring after her, not understanding. However, there was new terror within him, intense panic, like the fear a beast shot but not killed in a hunt feels as he scrambles to his feet. 

Hand in hand with these emotions was one more hopeless and horrible than the rest:

A wild joy.


	10. Chapter 10

Sandor never felt more like a hound than he did next morning. He paced the doorway he knew she would walk through like a dog gone mad, almost growling as his eyes kept darting to the doorway.

He had to talk to her, had to see her, had to demand an explanation from her.

Underneath the confused rage ran fear, fear; fear choked by that wild joy he didn’t dare acknowledge.

Sandor Clegane had always been afraid, he just hadn’t realized so until now. Not until the little bird flew heedlessly into his life.

Oh, he knew he feared fire. But that was a fear easy to wrap his head around; that fear was tangible, something he could see and smell. He knew all too well the searing pain unlike any other in the world. 

But this other fear….

This fear wasn’t directed at anything in particular, not even the bird, really. She just sparked it. 

He remembered when he first came to after Gregor destroyed his face. Those moments in bed before his memory of the incident came back in full force, before the pain hit him through the ineffectual numbing ointments, were the most terrifying of all. The disorientation of knowing deep in his bones that something terrible had happened but not quite remembering what haunted him still.

The uncertain fear of the six-year-old beat inside him now, only he could remember quite clearly what was troubling him so deeply.

Sansa fucking Stark kissed him.

As clearly as he remembered it, the kiss failed to feel real to him.

How _could_ it be real? Her cool lips, innocent but sure, pressed against his twisted and hateful ones…none of that could be real.

The door opened. Just like a loyal dog, his entire body stood at alert. 

Sansa walked through. She was wearing the dark blue gown from her audition.

She stopped when she saw him. Her eyes sparkled more dazzlingly than the crystals in the grand chandelier.

He knew then what she would say, knew with such certainty he scarcely had to think about it. She would look at him with regretful, embarrassed sympathy and in that melodious courteous voice apologize for forgetting herself yesterday. She hadn’t meant it. She’d just been so touched by his kindness and so afraid that she let her gratitude get the best of her, and – well, she hadn’t meant the kiss in a romantic way, he knew that, didn’t he? It was a kiss of gratitude, friendship. Then fighting his despair he’d snort some insult that proved it didn’t matter to him a tinker’s cuss. She’d blush uncomfortably, curtsey, and then hurry to her dressing room.

He waited for the inevitable.

Sansa smiled like a child. 

With more boisterous energy than usual she sped over to him. “Hello,” she said in a voice both shy and sweetly mischievous. Her smile grew wider, almost lopsided in her infatuated enthusiasm. “How…how are you?”

Her eyes weren’t like crystals, crystals are cold; her eyes were river water warmed by an underground spring.

The fear made breathing difficult. His face was as grim as if she were the executioner come to take his head. “Last night,” he barked.

She started at his harsh tone, his grim face. She cast her eyes down and her cheeks flushed red. She swallowed a giggle. “Yes…I was rather forward, wasn’t I? I hope I didn’t offend you.”

She inched closer to him. There was something almost… _coquettish_ in her expression as she looked up at him again. “I _didn’t_ offend you, did I?” She almost whispered.

Her mouth was parted a little. Her plump lower lip gleamed crimson. 

Along with the fear was now a terrible, immobilizing lust. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Fuck, what the fuck…fucking…fuck –

“What were you doing kissing a dog like me?” He loathed himself for the tragic throb in his deep voice.

He _felt_ tragic – like he was on the verge of a great collapse. This whole thing didn’t feel real to him because he knew, he _knew_ what she and everyone else saw when they looked at him. He saw it in the way the ballet girls squealed and hid their faces whenever he came near and they thought he couldn't see, he saw it in how the actors coughed awkwardly and grew pale, how Baelish subtly directed him never to show himself when audiences were present. He’d seen it more than anyone else each morning as he faced his bedroom mirror. 

He was never unaware of his burns. He felt them all the time. Always he carried Gregor’s stamp on him, the stamp of the world’s disgust. 

And she, she was a delicate, sweet, precious little birdling, and his chest hurt with tenderness for her and contempt for himself – 

Her eyes widened with slight alarm at the growing panic evident in him. Very quietly she answered, “Because I wanted to.”

He could do no more for a moment than gesture violently at the burnt side of his face. “But this – this” – His growl was filled with a tragedy so deep she wondered if she’d ever fully comprehend it.

Ever, ever like a bird, she tilted her head. She studied him. She grinned dreamily and shrugged. “What about them?”

“Don’t they frighten you?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. His pain hit her all at once. She yearned to take that frightened, cagey look from him for good. At last looking very tenderly and steadily into his eyes, she said, “At the very beginning, yes. They did. I…I associated them so much with your initial rough manner and with what happened to my aunt that…yes, I was frightened.”

Her expression melted into sorrowful softness. “But…once you told me the story of how you got them, I didn’t fear them anymore. Or you. Truly. I…I saw a dear, frightened, six-year-old boy with dreams of becoming a soldier, playing with a toy and then he was hurt for it very badly. I can’t fear such a boy as that! No, I can feel for him very deeply instead.”

As if to make sure he believed her, she took off her glove and cradled his scarred cheek in her bare hand, much as she made him do for her the night before.

The ruined skin felt leathery and craggy, but...oddly smooth, too.

She looked like a child as she caressed his burns. She looked like a happy, sweet child.

He flinched away from her as if burning all over again.

There was a hard lump in his throat.

He spoke swiftly, brutally. “You’re daft. Fucking daft. A young girl like you…what would your parents say if they saw you all hot and bothered for a filthy workman, brother to Gregor Clegane? Eh? Ah, but you don’t mean nothing serious, do you? Just trying to experiment, aren’t you? The adventurous little leading lady experimenting with the most unappealing lech she can find, that’s all it is. What, think touching my scars will make you a brave lady like your Jonquil? Do you think” –

She slipped her soft hand in his.

For some reason this simple action shook him even more than touching his burnt cheek. It was something… _sweethearts_ would do. The lump in his throat turned into a spasm – which, more importantly to Sansa, robbed him of speech.

Another bright giggle. “There! That shut you up.” She leaned up and kissed his unburnt cheek. She squeezed the hand she held.

He closed his eyes for a moment. He sighed, hoping to exhale out of his body all the sorrow in him. He couldn’t let the primitive, brutal darkness in him touch her, a darkness fighting against his happiness even now.

He opened his eyes and just looked at her silently.

And she gazed and gazed at him. She…she adored him. She looked at that strong, familiar face, so dark yet full of true gentleness – kindness.

After she kissed him the night before, she was full of doubt and fear herself. She knew she was drawn to him, had known on some level soon after they met. She hadn’t realized how much, however. Now she knew. As she settled into bed that night, she knew with a certainty that she would never regret that kiss. His deceptively soft lips, hot as the fire he hated, yet at the same time unsure; his tender eyes containing a strange, ancient wisdom…she adored him.

Furthermore, she _needed_ him right now.

She shivered as she remembered why.

Anxiety peered out of her gaze as she suddenly grabbed his arm. “Sandor, do you know they’ve put me in Cersei’s dressing room? There’s nowhere else they can fit me and all the costumes Jonquil wears. I know it sounds silly, but…” She bit her lower lip. “Will you walk me there?”

His forehead creased and she realized he might be a bit jarred by her drastic jump in subject. “It’s just that…well…a boy died in there yesterday! Murdered! I’m sure I don’t believe in ghosts, but it’s all so ghoulish….” She was a perfect picture of supplication. “Won’t you please take me?”

Had there been a hint of flirtatious manipulation in her words he might have scoffed at her. Yet as always, she was nothing but candid.

And he hated when she was afraid – even though her eyes grew larger and her panting made her bosom heave up and down –

_Fuck off, you dirty bastard._

Her hand still in his, he gestured with his head out the backstage door. “Come on, then.”

There was a lightly teasing but fond light in his eye. Sansa hoped desperately that meant he was accepting…the state of things between them. Whatever they were. Sansa wasn’t exactly sure. What he’d said about her parents…that was a good point. There was also the matter of his age. 

Yet as he led her to the dressing room, and she felt the reassuring warmth and solidity of his hand in hers, there was no doubt in her heart. None.

 

He held open the dressing room door for her. He both admired and was fondly amused by the way she steadied herself before entering, like the little soldier again.

While all evidence of police tampering was by now gone, the room still had a gloomy feel. Cersei’s maids removed her personal effects, and so the room looked ominously bare. A box containing Sansa’s possessions sat on the vanity.

What impressed Sansa the most was the size of the room. Compared to the quarters she’d shared with Mya and Myranda, this space was a hotel suite! 

Sandor stood in the door frame as she slowly explored her new dressing room, the large man just barely fitting inside it. She exited his line of sight when she turned past the corner of the partition in the middle of the room. 

He followed her when she gasped.

“What is it?”

“I had no idea this was here!”

Sandor shrugged when he saw what she was referring to. “Just a wall-mounted mirror.”

She looked it over, up and down. “Yes, but it takes up the whole wall! At first I thought my reflection was someone else!”

He laughed, pricking her vanity. “You find me amusing, do you?” She said with affected haughtiness.

She couldn’t stay angry at the suddenly youthful look of merriment in his eyes. “Aye, I do.” Softening, now it was he who took her hand. “Don’t worry, little bird. I told you I’d keep you safe. I’ll look out for you.”

Sansa truly understood now why damsels swooned after love scenes in melodramas. She felt like swooning, laughing, and otherwise going just plain mad with affection.

He glanced around the room. “Besides, nobody’s stupid enough to come back to the scene of the crime. The police are buzzing all over, too.” In a gruffer voice, he asked, “By the way, you ever talk to Selmy?”

“Oh, about how I was probably one of the last to see Joffrey alive? Yes, just before I came in this morning.”

He tried to suppress the flutter of anxiety in his breast. The brat attacked her and then was found dead…if that didn’t make her a suspect, he didn’t know what would.

Smiling gently, she reassured him. “Don’t worry. Officer Selmy said even with a rope, it’s doubtful I could possess the strength necessary for such a crime. He doesn’t suspect me. You see, sometimes it pays to be so delicate and feminine.” She batted her eyelids and twisted her mouth in a caricature of insipid girlhood.

Sandor couldn’t help laughing, though he tried to give it a derisive edge. “Huh! Well, Selmy at least has his head screwed on straight.” He looked at the clock behind her. “Better let you get to it. Your maids will be here soon, I reckon.”

He shuffled a bit awkwardly. As always, he hid any facial evidence of discomfort with that sardonic twist in his burnt cheek. He very briefly rubbed her shoulder with his large hand. He turned to go.

Sansa spoke. “Would you like to wait for me just outside this door after rehearsal?” There was a high-pitched hint of hopefulness to her voice.

He looked at her darkly over his shoulder. She could hear his deep breathing. After what seemed like silent hours of inner struggle on his behalf, he finally nodded. He sternly reminded her to lock the door behind him then left.

In contrast to Sandor’s frightened moodiness, Sansa felt airy, light after their encounter. They hadn’t kissed again, but…they were…courting now? She guessed? 

She giggled again. Yes, that’s nice. Just as it should be. She’d had her exhilarating first kiss, standing in the moonlight while danger was all around her. Now she would be courted like a lady. She was having it both ways, she thought happily: the romantic adventure of the novel and the courtship of class-driven chivalry.

Sansa’s feelings for Sandor were genuine, but she was quite young. She was falling love with him, but in a sense she was almost playing at a grown-up relationship. What was serious as death to Sandor was also important to Sansa, but in a far more playful, lighthearted way.

Had she known how their attitudes differed, she would have contemplated the matter in a graver light. She would make haste to tell him to trust her, yet not to expect too much right away. As it was, she was lost in a dream world with her strong, fearsome protector. How he made her heart soar with his deep voice, harsh laugh, and devotion to her safety! Just like out of an opera. Her Florian.

She stood daydreaming for a moment before her maid knocked on the door. She entered and helped her dress.

Her understudy costumes for Jonquil fit her wonderfully, she was relieved to see. The bathing gown, garden dress, dungeon shift, all were diaphanous and beautifully embroidered.

Her penchant for daydreaming overtook her again once she put on the dungeon shift. She was so lost admiring the stitching even on this comparatively plain dress that she failed to realize her maid had left her alone until she looked up and saw her gone.

She glanced at her clock. Oh, good. The costume tests flew by much quicker than anticipated because the gowns fit so well and required few adjustments. She had a while yet before she was needed onstage.

She fiddled with her skirt. She imagined her fingers were longer and darker and thicker, coarse and gentle and warm on her thigh.

_Sandor._

She stood in front of the wall-mounted mirror to look over herself in full view.

Smiling at her pretty reflection, she started singing “The Jewelry Song” to herself, swaying to the music.

As she sang, she could almost hear a light accompaniment….

Then she stopped singing altogether.

Wait a minute…

She _had_ heard accompaniment.

A violin.

She listened carefully. Silence.

Experimentally, she sang a few notes more. 

The violin played ghostly and soft in the distance.

Eyes darting this way and that, she ran to the door and looked outside.

No one. The dressing room was too far away from the stage. The music from a single violin couldn’t travel all the way here.

She shut the door. Was she going mad?

She approached the mirror again. Taking a deep breath, she sang.

The violin came again, a little louder now.

It…it seemed to come from the mirror.

Almost transfixed, she continued singing.

She stopped with a small shriek when an otherworldly pure tenor joined her.

Silence again.

She shivered, unable to make a sound.

The tenor spoke to her, almost as if the mirror itself had become sentient.

_“Do not be afraid, child.”_

Contrary to this instruction, she’d never felt such fear in her life. Her insides quaked.

“Who are you? Where’s your voice coming from?” She tried to make herself sound as commanding as her mother, but was sure she sounded like a trapped mouse.

The sweetest, kindest chuckle in the world was her answer. The voice circled her. “Now Sansa,” he chided like a fond father, “Old Nan surely told you about the Angel of Music, did she not?”

Sansa couldn’t find breath for a moment. “The Angel of Music…?”

“Yes, my child. It is I.”

Warily she shook her head. “No…no, that’s just a story….”

“Is it, Sansa?”

She tried to form words of indignant denial, but he only chuckled again and sang.

He sang of old Northern gods, of the First Men. 

He sang in a voice that wasn’t of the mortal plane.

He sang like an angel.

Her eyes watered. Oh Gods…could it be true? 

She could scarcely form words. “Why…why…?”

“Why have I come to you, sweet girl? Why do you _think_ the Angel would come? I've come to teach you.”

“Teach me?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Sansa. Your perseverance and talent called to me. You are the worthiest pupil I could ever train.”

A sharp pang of ecstasy shot through her, but cleared almost instantly. _No. No. I_ must _be going mad._

She shook her head fiercely. “I don’t believe you! I don’t! Someone’s playing a trick on me! I” –

 _“Shhhhhhhh.”_ She suddenly felt so weary. Her vision blurred a little. The edges of the mirror melded into the wall, everything fluid and connected. She was so, so weary. Yet she felt oddly…safe.

“Stare into the glass, Sansa.”

She did. The glass rippled like water. The sight was…hypnotic.

As she stared she felt her mind leave her body, hover over her, miles and miles away.

There was only the voice now.

_“Sing.”_

She obeyed.

 

Sandor waited for Sansa just as he had that morning. Only instead of the hallway, he stood sentinel outside her new dressing room, and instead of pacing, he stood with rock-like stillness.

There was still anxiety within him, only of a vastly different nature.

Instead of fearing for himself, he feared for her, someone far worthier.

She’d looked so radiant and lively when he left her in her dressing room. The parting glance she gave her poor dog was full of bright affection. 

When he saw her onstage for rehearsal, however….

She was like one undead.

She played the role perfectly, with just the right amount of animation, her voice glorious as always. But in between scenes, her movements were minimal, her usually mobile face expressionless and dead. She looked like a doll; pretty and porcelain, but hollow.

The only sign of life in her was the occasional slight furrow of her brow, as if she were concentrating on trying to recall...something. She’d turn her glassy eyes to the rafters.

Many times Sandor was tempted to step forward, to see if she was sick.

Then Oakheart would call places for the next scene, and as if by magic, she was the charming young performer again. Color returned to her cheeks and Sandor would wonder if he imagined it all.

However, this didn’t lessen his anxiety. He trusted his perceptions. They usually did not fail him. No, he hadn’t imagined anything.

She emerged from her dressing room.

The dull glassy look was back. Her face was so drained of color she looked like one of the vampire victims the ballerinas always went on about from the latest serials in the paper.

She jolted back to life the instant Sandor’s hard hands gripped her arms. “Girl…girl! What’s wrong with you?”

She stared at Sandor. She stared at her protector, the one person she knew she would always trust.

She sobbed weakly and collapsed into his arms. “Sandor, I’m afraid, afraid.”

There was a hunted, hysterical tone to her voice unlike the slightly tremulous notes from this morning. She sounded as if a beast was devouring her, and she was powerless to stop it.

She could say nothing else through her tears, and so Sandor just held her, watchful and alarmed.


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor never felt so constrained as he did now, watching his girl stand rooted on the stage before the curtain rose opening night. She was so vacantly submissive as attendants fussed around her.

If only she’d look at him once….

Every seat in the theater was sold, filled. Sandor had not expected this. He knew that despite her waning talent, Cersei Lannister was an institution here, and therefore the crowds flocked to her; but to an inexperienced understudy?

However, curiosity won out in the audience – more to the point, curiosity about the scene of Joffrey’s gruesome demise, Sandor imagined.

None of this truly mattered to Sandor now. What mattered was her pale face, empty but staring up into the rafters, staring, staring.

Gods, but she was beautiful.

She did not wear a wig, as her natural hair was so full and the shade so memorable it was decided there was no need of one. Instead, she wore curled extensions to amplify her thick mane. Oakheart concurred with the makeup department that Sansa’s delicate complexion was better suited by lighter makeup, and that the visibility of her features would not suffer for it.

She was a vision, but to the brooding stagehand she was missing now that spark of innocent vivacity and animation that made her so…Sansa.

Yet Sandor knew the routine by now: once the curtain rose, the animation would come back in a flash and she was sure to charm those present.

The change in her these past few weeks was marked. Everyone noticed, but no one knew how to broach the topic with the once friendly but now withdrawn Northern singer. Not even friends like Tyrell, Stone, or Royce could reach her.

What was keeping her in such deathly thrall?

She asked him not to wait for her outside her dressing room anymore. She sought him out in his little office backstage near the rafter’s ladder in the moments when she seemed herself. Blushing, she said there was too much risk of him running into her maid outside her door.

She was lying, but how could Sandor accuse her? What evidence did he have except his gut feeling?

As for her behavior toward him, there was an urgent, childlike clinging to her now. She seized every opportunity to sneak into his small office. She practically leaped into his lap and pinned him to his seat. She buried her face in his neck, his shoulder, or his broad chest. She’d cling, cling.

Sandor was surprised how quickly this feeling became _home_ for him. Having never experienced this sort of closeness before, he expected an awkward adjustment period. Instead there was right away a warm, unspeakably sweet familiarity to holding the girl in his arms this way.

His all-consuming concern also took precedence over any self-doubt.

Each day he’d murmur into her coppery locks, “Little bird, what is it? Tell me.”

And each day she’d shake her head wordlessly, and after more insistent prompting say, “Nothing, nothing, just nerves, that’s all. About opening night.”

Again, a lie, a lie, but how to call her out?

He found himself more protective of keeping their relationship secret than she. He’d gently push her out of his lap and stand, pulling her behind him, whenever he heard the faint sound of footsteps outside. Once the footsteps passed, he’d note a slight question in her blue eyes: _Why secrecy? If we’re to keep it secret, where will it all end?_

The first question Sandor readily had an answer for. It would soil her ladylike reputation, her parents would hear and be outraged, and they both might be pressured to leave the opera, who knows!

The second question he dodged answering to himself. They’d never said those _certain words_ to each other, never discussed the future. Hell, all they really did now was hold each other, Sandor patting the frightened girl’s back as she clung to him like a rope thrown to one shipwrecked.

Besides, despite her questioning glances, the girl herself never verbally pressed him on the issue. So why should he bother right now? Might as well just soak in as much of her as he could in the few moments they managed.

But still, the question nagged.

He couldn’t bring himself in his heart to answer it. For one thing, too much of himself was spent worrying about her to properly attend to such vague questions. For another…if he faced the question, he’d have to answer it fairly.

Where did he _want_ the relationship to go?

All he knew for sure was that he wanted her safe, safe, _safe._

His fear for her had become an obsession. He could barely sleep for it.

His little bird…staring dead-eyed into the rafters….

The orchestra started. Sandor watched from the wings. Anyone catching sight of his face would think him merely surveying the props and set pieces, searching for anything out of place.

The curtain rose.

The chorus began singing in High Valerian about the great fool Florian coming to town, and of the great beauty of Lady Jonquil and her three sisters (the soprano Lollys Stokeworth filled in for the sister Sansa had played, though the girl lacked both beauty and brains in Sandor’s opinion). 

Sansa came to the center and sang.

A great gasp spread throughout the theater.

Sandor’s heart about stopped.

It was a brief solo, but Sansa in her few moments sang in such unworldly seraphic notes, full of gaiety, that the audience was immediately won over.

They applauded after the verse, which had never happened before.

That was only the start.

The opera itself was a blur for Sandor, as he suspected it was for her as well. How she lit up the stage though, took control in such a seamless, lighthearted way. And her voice, her voice – _her voice!_

Sandor knew that whatever became of them, her voice would be the last thing he heard in his head before he died.

_Her voice._

Between act breaks, Sansa turned back into the lifeless thing doing only what it’s told, going only where it’s led. Her maids led her off like a somnambulist to change costumes.

Sandor swallowed, hot with frustration.

The last act began, the most tragic in the opera. Jonquil was confined to a dungeon for killing her child born out of wedlock in a panic. She was guarded by a malevolent giant. When Sansa appeared behind the bars to sing her lament for her lost freedom, the change in her was so immense from the happy girl of before that the audience gasped again.

Her countenance expressed the numb, weary sorrow of a child who does not understand why her life has collapsed. Her voice was tears personified. 

Sandor could hear the sniffing from the audience, from both feminine and masculine noses.

She disappeared for about thirty minutes so Florian and the Stranger could confront and kill the giant (the giant consisting of two long papier-mache legs and the booming voice of Lothor Brune from backstage, the bass singer who was courting Mya Stone).

The prison set was back, and Florian and the Stranger called to the delirious Jonquil. Florian begged her to accept the Stranger’s deal for freedom and Florian’s hand in marriage in exchange for her soul.

One more universal gasp as the weak and passive look in her face vanished into hard resolution. Her eyes glowed like sapphires lit by flame. She was full of righteous fury. She accused both lover and god of trickery, deceit.

Now came the moment when Sansa sang in a voice unlike any had heard before.

If she sang with the voice of an angel in the beginning, she sang now with the voice of every goddess, old and new. She stood at the center of the stage. The bars were gone. She stared with ecstasy into the rafters as she reached her arms up to the sky, begging the Mother to take her home.

_“Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save my soul from Hell, I pray….”_

Sandor stared at her profile. The light picked up the copper strands in her auburn locks and turned them to fire. Her simple white dress flowing down about her feet made her look the very picture of the Maiden. He saw the tears pour down her cheeks, and yet she sang in a voice powerfully pure.

Sandor felt like he was entering a fugue state as she sang. Only those who’ve undergone a religious epiphany could understand the way the gruff, crude head stagehand felt now.

There was no longer any gasp from the audience. No one but Sansa could find their voice.

At last, Margaery as the Mother and other sundry chorus singers as the Father, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, and the Crone sang in unison offstage, welcoming Sansa to the safety of the Heavens.

What had always been comical to Sandor and others before became uplifting now: Sansa was pulled up by ropes, up into the paper clouds and sun. A tearful smile of disbelieving peace graced her beautiful face as the gods forgave her.

Florian and the Stranger stood crushed and defeated below.

The curtain fell.

Such a ruckus in the King’s Landing opera house was never heard before or since as the audience jumped to their feet.

Sandor’s eyes followed Sansa each time she sped outside the curtain for one encore, then another, then another, then another….

He had never seen so many demands for encore before.

It warmed Sandor’s heart and lessened his concern just by the slightest fraction when he saw that she still retained in the midst of whatever state she was in enough of her good nature to insist Loras Tyrell join her in her last bow. Sandor only felt vaguely jealous of the lad; as handsome as he was, and as much as Sandor always had to look away when his Florian kissed her Jonquil, Sandor knew of Tyrell’s true desires. Thus, he had no fear of anything happening between them.

Sandor was also glad to note the apparently genuine smile of gratitude on the little bird’s face as she shyly accepted a bouquet from her Florian. She looked almost herself.

The curtain fell for the final time.

The bouquet fell to the stage as she fainted.

Sandor snapped into action, not even thinking about it. He pushed the flummoxed Loras out of the way, who had crouched down to pick her up.

“Move,” Sandor said brusquely to the panicked crowd around her. He lifted her easily in his arms and carried her away.

“Fetch the doctor,” he called over his shoulder as he headed to her dressing room past concerned players and stagehands. She felt light, as if she’d lost weight. He stared at her unconscious face, her mouth open like a sleeping child’s. Sweat beaded her oddly furrowed brow.

Sandor felt his throat catch. 

He snapped at the crowd that gathered around them, consisting of both the company and privileged admirers that had already rushed in from the audience. Using his height and appearance to full effect, he succeeded in scaring them all off by the time he reached her dressing room door.

He barked sharply at the maid to go see if the doctor was coming. He’d see to Miss Stark. Stunned, the girl absently curtseyed then left, closing the door behind her.

Once they were alone, Sandor set her down gently in an arm chair. She moaned weakly. He pat her cheeks with the back of his fingers. “Girl,” his voice was soft but urgent. “Girl, wake up. Sansa.” He unscrewed the flask he kept in his vest and poured some of the sour wine into her open mouth.

She spluttered awake. He shushed her and wiped the wine from her lips with a handkerchief. “You’re all right now, little bird, you’re all right.”

Those vibrant eyes looked straight through him. She recognized him at last, and with recognition came a rush of warm feeling. Confusion then took over. “Sandor…what…?”

A wry half-smile. “You passed out once the curtain came down, little bird. Stone cold you were. Scared the shite out of everyone…including me.”

She was shaking. That odd furrow was back in her brow. “How…how was it?”

He laughed in disbelief. “You were there, little bird! You knocked them all dead. Surely you remember a little.”

She looked away from him, and her expression was very grave. “Vaguely. Yes, vaguely. I suppose.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed her roughly by the arms, though still conscious of her vulnerable state. “Dammit, girl. What the fuck’s wrong with you lately? First you act like a damned zombie whenever you’re not onstage, then you faint dead away, and now you can’t remember shit? Girl” –

He stopped at the sudden look on her face. He’d expected more excuses, something about the adrenaline making her forgetful, or something.

Instead she looked tortured and she choked out through sobs, “Sandor…” Her shaking hand cupped his cheek. “I don’t know myself when I sing anymore.” She looked broken, hysterical. She burst into shuddering sobs.

As piteous a figure as she made, he had no time to react. He was immediately on his feet and standing behind her. The doorknob turned.

A fat, flushed young man entered carrying a black leather bag. “Hello!” He said in a cheerful, candid voice.

Sansa quickly brushed away her tears and answered with a welcoming smile, seemingly in control of herself once more. “Dr. Tarly! So glad to see you again.” In spite of her weak state, she sat up and offered him her hand.

Samwell Tarly was not only the opera’s resident doctor, but her brother Jon’s best friend from the military. He was also married to Sansa’s favorite dresser, Gilly. His moon-shaped face was a comfort to Sansa now, a little piece of home in a place so far away.

He pulled up a stool and felt for her pulse. He gazed in a friendly concerned way into her face. “Had a bit of a spell, did we, miss?”

Sansa blushed. “Yes. I guess I fainted.”

A dark snort behind her. “No ‘guess’ about it.” Sandor addressed Tarly in a clipped voice, attempting to mask his concern. “Felt her forehead. Don’t feel like fever or anything.”

“Hm,” Tarly said disinterestedly. Something in Sansa’s face arrested his attention. He gently moved her head side to side, studying her eyes. “How have you been feeling lately, Miss Stark?”

Only Sandor noticed the slight hesitation before answering. “Oh, all right, I suppose. Nervous, of course.”

Sandor saw her trembling hand increase its grip on the chair’s arm.

“Hm.” Tarly repeated, speculative. Before either Sansa or Sandor could question him, he appeared to snap out of whatever he was contemplating. “Well! Nothing wrong with you physically. Exhaustion and nerves, I think. You should really take better care of yourself, miss. More sleep and drink lots of water. I know this is your debut and all – and you were really smashing by the way, truly smashing! – but that’s no excuse not to take care of yourself.”

He was graced with another bright smile from Sansa. “Absolutely. In fact, I think I’ll go straight home and sleep the whole night through.” She shook Sam’s hand again. “Thank you, doctor.”

“My pleasure. Congratulations, miss!”

He nodded awkwardly to Sandor, as discomfited by the large scarred stagehand as anyone else – especially as the Hound’s face now was particularly dark and grim as he loomed behind Miss Stark. Why was the Hound here, anyhow? –

A knock on the door and Tyrion and Varys entered, each with large bouquets.

Varys’s eyes glittered more courteously than ever. “Our brilliant new diva! I’m afraid Lord Baelish is held up with greeting the various nobles present tonight, and he sent us along to give you not only his but our sincerest congratulations. Not a dry eye in the house, my dear!”

Even Tyrion was genuinely impressed. “I say, I don’t mind confessing one of those damp sets of eyes was my own. Bravo, madam.” He kissed her hand.

“You do know the girl just fainted,” Sandor growled behind the chair. “You might want to address that before buttering her up.”

“San – Mr. Clegane,” Sansa said out of the corner of her mouth, scolding.

“No! He’s right, Miss Stark. We’ve been painfully remiss.” Varys pressed her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, much better. Thank you.”

In answer to Tyrion’s inquiring glance, Dr. Tarly said, “Yes, yes. I think just a touch of exhaustion.” Sandor noted how he fidgeted a little when he said so. _The doctor suspects something else, but he’s not sure…._

Varys expressed relief. “Well, thank the gods it’s nothing more serious.”

“Will she be able to go on tomorrow?” Tyrion asked.

Another derisive snort from Sandor. “Aye, now we come to the heart of the matter, what you really care about.”

“Clegane, what are you even doing here?” Tyrion asked in a barbed voice. “We’ll see to the lady. Why don’t you go find a tree to piss on?”

“Mr. Lannister!” Sansa disparaged the manager. Her face was red and her eyes indignant.

Swallowing more scornful words, Tyrion bowed to her. “My apologies, Miss Stark.” Clearing his throat, Tyrion addressed Sandor with barely concealed dislike. “Hound, would you please see to your duties? Mr. Varys and I would like to make our congratulations in private, if you don’t mind.”

Sandor scowled and looked at Sansa. She gave him an encouraging little smile. “It’s all right, Mr. Clegane. Thank you for your service tonight.”

Casting one more black glance at Tyrion, Sandor left.

He stood outside her door, flexing his hands. He felt impotent, powerless. 

He’d only felt that way twice before: once when Gregor burned him, and the next when he stood over the corpse of the man he killed.

Powerless was his least favorite feeling in the world, side by side with his constant fear.

He thought back on Sansa’s behavior since taking Jonquil’s role. 

She entered her dressing room that first day light of heart, the vivaciously courteous girl that first obsessed him. She emerged almost a different girl entirely, as if she left behind a piece of her soul in her dressing room, a piece that only came back when she sang onstage.

 _Baelish,_ Sandor thought seething. _Baelish must have something to do with it. Everyone knows he’s stuck on her mother, and that’s the only reason Sansa’s here. I hear she favors her mother. It must be Baelish, bothering her in some way._

_But her dressing room…what does that damned dressing room have to do with all this? First Joffrey’s strangled corpse, now Sansa’s altered state._

For the first time in his life, Sandor Clegane neglected his duties and instead slunk back against the shadows along the wall. Waiting. He had to make her tell him what was going on.

He shrank back further as the door opened and the managers and the doctor came out. They passed by without seeing Sandor, Tarly reassuring them Sansa should be fully recovered after a full night’s rest.

Sandor waited a few more moments, making sure no one was lingering in the corridor, no admirer or journalist hoping to steal a quote from the sensational new singer.

Emptiness in the corridor.

Sandor was just about to knock on the door when his fist stilled. His blood turned to ice.

He heard a beautiful male voice within, slightly muffled.

_“Sansa, you must love me.”_

The ice turned to fire in Sandor’s veins.

Sansa’s teary voice answered. “How can you talk like that? When I sing only for you?”

Sandor’s mind and heart raced as one, so that coherent thought wasn’t possible for several seconds. The evidence was clear: she had another lover. But no: impossible. Sansa. Sansa did not lie. Not...not about something like this. He knew this truth in the very marrow of his bones. She could not double-cross anyone, not for her very life. But –

The beautiful tenor spoke again, in sweetly concerned paternal tones. “Are you very tired?” 

Sansa’s voice was so dull and cold it was as if she spoke from her tomb. “Tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead.”

“Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, and I thank you. No emperor ever received so rare a gift. _The angels wept tonight.”_

Sandor could take no more. He was about to break down the door if need be to confront the two when he heard footsteps approaching.

He returned to his dark corner and waited.

Margaery Tyrell came into view. She knocked on her friend’s door. “Sansa? Hey, songstress? Ready to go, my triumphant girl?”

Sandor couldn’t hear Sansa’s reply, but Margaery answered, “I’ll wait, then.” She busied herself fiddling inside her purse until Sansa appeared, back in her regular clothing, coat and hat on. 

The two women walked on, Sansa passively taking in Margaery’s stream of excited compliments. Like the managers and the doctor, neither girl noticed the heart-stricken Hound.

He watched them until they disappeared from view. Then blood rushing to his head, Sandor fished for his master key on its chain around his belt. Without a moment’s reflection, he unlocked the door and entered.

Whoever it was must have had the same idea as he, and was waiting until he made sure the coast was clear before leaving the dressing room. Sandor would beat him at his own game. He would confront the bastard and –

No one was there.

Sandor lit the lamp and looked around the room. No one.

He almost tore off the closet door as he wrenched it open, searching inside.

Not a trace of anyone anywhere.

He breathed heavily, standing in the center of the room. He concentrated on lowering his rage. He had to think. Think.

The mad rush of jealousy and confusion had pushed out the true troubling question now: how did whoever the blighter was get in here? Sandor certainly didn’t see anyone when he brought Sansa into the room. Where did the voice come from, and where was he now?

Sandor was confident enough in his own sanity not to question what he heard. He knew he heard someone speak to Sansa, and Sandor heard her answer back.

He recalled the awed fear in Sansa’s voice. She did not speak with the fond affection of a lover.

Nor did she speak as if the man was her enemy, either.

She spoke as one would to a cherished but wrathful god.

 _Who the fuck_ was _this man?_

Sandor’s clenched fists shook like aspen leaves.

“Baelish…Baelish…” He repeated to himself, as if muttering the vilest profanity. “But fucking how…?”


	12. Chapter 12

Early next morning a shadow fell over Petyr Baelish as he added up accounts in his office.

He glanced up.

Sandor Clegane stood there, indecipherable as granite.

The thin grin Baelish gave the Hound was smaller, less interested than those to his superiors. “Yes?”

“It’s about the Stark girl.” Like his expression, Sandor’s voice gave nothing away.

“What about her?”

Baelish saw the slight twitch of Sandor’s mouth, but thought nothing of it. He did not think of Sandor much at all.

“Something’s going on with her. Something strange.”

Baelish raised both his eyebrows, a vaguely impatient prompt for Clegane to continue.

“I’m wondering if you have something to do with it.”

Sandor could see the mechanism ticking away in those pale grayish-green eyes as Baelish prepared a reaction. 

He settled on his standard dismissive laugh. “My dear Clegane, I have never known you to be so vague. _What_ is happening to the girl? And why should you think I have anything to do with it?”

Sandor spoke in a dry, unemotional voice, as if reciting a list of props to his fellow stagehands. “She acts dull and lifeless offstage. She fainted last night after her performance. I’ve heard her crying when I’ve walked by her dressing room. I think I heard a man speak to her in there. Someone I didn’t know.”

He noticed the slight stiffening in Baelish’s face. “Oh, yes? What sort of voice?”

“Couldn’t hear it too well. Muffled by the door and everything. A man’s voice, that’s all I can tell you.”

“Hm.” Petyr looked very far away for a moment. His eyes came sharply back to Sandor, smile wider. “And you think I’m involved in this?”

Sandor didn’t answer, just stared back obliquely at his employer.

Baelish kept his voice calm, mild. “May I ask why you think so?”

Sandor waited several seconds. He spoke in a voice in its own way as calm and mild as Baelish’s. “Lots of things go on ‘round here that I don’t know about. You don’t involve me in everything.”

“More like you don’t _let_ me involve you in everything I do.”

Sandor’s eyes went black as night. “No. I don’t. I’m Lannister’s man, not yours.”

Sandor knew he was not one to claim moral high ground. He’d killed before, and he regularly dispensed beatings for Littlefinger. However, these were people who had it coming: gamblers, crooked investors – much like the shits he had to deal with at Casterly Rock. Making sure crates full of ill-gotten gains were shipped to the right places, collecting on collateral – those were the duties Sandor fulfilled for Littlefinger, but they all indirectly benefited Tywin Lannister.

Sandor would not help Baelish with his independent enterprises. Sandor was no pimp. He deliberately maintained ignorance over what went on behind his back. In the past, he’d visited Baelish’s other establishments once or twice for a quick fuck, but – well, a man’s got to have a code about what he involves himself in.

He simmered with self-loathing, reminding himself how far he violated his code by willfully remaining ignorant.

_You never used to give so much of a shit, not until you saw two big blue doe eyes that might fall into his greasy little hands…._

_Hypocrite._

“All right, so you’re Lannister’s man,” Petyr said agreeably, cracking his knuckles. There was just a hint of steel in his voice. “That’s agreed upon. I still don’t see how” –

“I also know you’re the Phantom.”

Petyr gazed at him serenely. Nothing could be more stolid than the towering Hound now, never moving.

“Oh?”

Sandor closed his eyes for a moment, aggravated Baelish was so subtly forcing him to explain. “Because I’m Lannister’s man, I know you don’t use me for everything. You have…other people around here. Outside of here. People to do your bidding.”

“Well, yes, of course. I have so many independent ventures it would be awfully imprudent of me not to employ others. And these people, you theorize they carry out my wishes – as the Phantom? I’m the brains and they’re the brawn behind the notorious Opera Ghost, is that the idea?”

Sandor again did not answer, but the slight flicker of his thick eyebrow was answer enough.

Petyr studied him dispassionately. “I wonder if you truly believe that,” he said softly, as if to himself. 

His eyes suddenly bore into Sandor, as if truly taking in the Hound for the first time.

Sandor did not shift under that glare, but Petyr’s query brought up all his old doubt.

Hells, Sandor _didn’t_ know if he really believed it. 

After years working for Baelish, Sandor came to the conclusion that while Littlefinger wasn’t as overwhelmingly brilliant as he thought he was, he was still a cautious man. A better word was calculating. The letters to management about who should play what role, what operas should go on, who should be dismissed, and especially the “salary” for the Phantom, all that Sandor could easily see Petyr orchestrating.

But outright murder? Baelish certainly wasn’t morally above it, but murder was far riskier than taking money on the sly, and such “accidents” brought attention to the opera house – attention Baelish could not easily afford. 

Yet if he was motivated by twisted passion for the beautiful daughter of the woman he coveted….

Sandor still wasn’t sure if it all rang true to him.

His voice was rougher than he would have liked as he answered Baelish. “Whether or not I believe it is beyond the point. The point is…something’s happening to the girl. If you’re behind it, you should stop.”

He very carefully kept his fists unclenched. He could not let Petyr see his passion.

Petyr leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to the side. “Might I ask why you are so concerned? Quite frankly, this is not the first mysterious going-on here at the opera house. She is not the first girl…well, decency forbids me to go into detail, but she is not the first girl to encounter a spot of trouble here. You never bothered before.”

Again self-loathing at his hypocrisy made Sandor’s stomach churn a bit. Petyr was right at that. 

Sandor carefully rid his voice of any emotion. “This girl’s different. She comes from a proper family. One who knows you. If anything should happen to her, they might cause a fuss. What with all the shit that’s gone down since Joff’s death, I thought you might want to make sure it won’t come to that.”

Petyr laughed again. “Well, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sandor couldn’t help the growl that came out in his rumbling voice. “I ain’t too troubled for you. But I rather like this job. Wouldn’t like the place to go under.”

He watched Petyr carefully now. 

Baelish’s gleaming white smile was as shallow and inscrutable as ever. “Clegane. You are an astute fellow. I thank you for your council. However, I do not hire you for council. You are…well, muscle. Very impressive muscle, don’t get me wrong, ha ha!” He held up his hand in mock terror. He then smiled very sweetly again. “I’m afraid I don’t much care for those in my employ to…well, how should I put this…to ‘step outside their wheelhouse’ if I may borrow a rather common phrase.” He shrugged. “If you find yourself constrained in any way by your role here, and would like to branch out, you could always return to Casterly Rock?”

His eyebrows were up again, the question lingering.

Sandor’s blood burned. He’d told himself before confronting Baelish that he would not back down, that he’d beat the man to death before allowing him to continue harassing Sansa – or if he turned out not to be at blame, if he wouldn’t tell Sandor who really was. For Sandor knew that if Baelish was not the Phantom, he certainly knew who was, and therefore who might be behind all this.

But now….

Now Baelish made it clear: if Sandor pressed anymore, even just a bit, he’d be dismissed.

Not very long ago, that would not have bothered Sandor overmuch. Tywin would take him back in a heartbeat; a man of Sandor’s unquestioning loyalty and brawn was a much needed asset. Sandor would never lack for work.

_But now…._

If Sandor left, who would watch over her?

He took one more look into Petyr’s friendly, disinterested face. Sandor thought of Sansa alone here with Petyr in charge and he inwardly shuddered.

His voice no more than a low grumble, Sandor said, “I’ve got no complaints.” 

Tension made the air hum.

Turning slowly, Sandor left the office.

After he’d gone, Baelish let the steel come fully into his eyes as he tapped his fingers absently on the desk.

He did not dwell on Sandor, or meditate on whether or not the Hound was telling the truth about his motivations for coming to see him.

As always, Baelish ruminated on himself, and who he perceived now as wronging him.

 

Sandor’s strides were so long and fast in his pent-up anger that he practically ran straight into young Podrick Payne, the tremulously obedient pageboy.

“Um” –

“What is it, boy?”

Podrick turned white at the Hound’s snarling tone. The page thrust out a small envelope. “From Miss Stark, sir.”

Sandor snatched it immediately, tearing it open. He turned scorching eyes to the boy who valiantly remained. “Well?”

Pod cleared his throat. “Miss Stark wanted me to wait for your answer, sir.”

“I’m no sir,” he mumbled as he read her note.

_“Sandor,_

_I apologize for the late notice, but could you please meet me in Baelor’s Park at 12:30? I must speak with you about something very important._

_Please let me know._

_Yours,  
Sansa.”_

He read it again quickly.

_Yours, Sansa._

_Yours._

What sort of infatuated juvenile was he, eyes glued to that stupid standard signature in her delicate handwriting? He warmed in amusement over her usual abundance of courtesy even in a hastily written note to her…to her…to whatever he was to her.

_Yours, Sansa._

Tucking the note away in his vest pocket, he nodded curtly at the page. “Tell her yes.” He stalked off, hoping he was leaving behind the impression that she’d asked nothing more than to have the jewelry box moved a little more to the left in the garden scene.

 

Baelor’s Park was just across the street from the opera house. It was little more than a medium-sized courtyard, lovingly mowed and tended. Its greatest ornament was a large statue of Baelor the Blessed in the middle of the park, the Targaryen king holding a book of prayers with two upraised fingers as if dispensing a blessing. 

Various oak trees lined the edges of the park among the hedges. Sandor seated himself on a bench shaded by the tree closest to the park’s entrance, closest to the opera house. He warily watched a group of boys in the opposite corner, kicking about a ball to each other. 

He fidgeted on the bench, twisting his cap impatiently in his hands. Sandor Clegane, sitting on a bench on a sunny day in the park! Just…sitting there. Sandor couldn’t remember the last time he had an idle moment – off duty time was spent either sleeping or drinking himself into a stupor. 

Two birds chirped to each other on a branch then flew off. Sandor frowned. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall ever sitting in a park before. Maybe when he was very little, before Gregor…?

After five minutes, he heard what he knew were her delicate, precise footsteps rapidly approaching.

He hid his smile after glancing at his pocket watch. It was around 12:35. He knew she was only released for lunch at 12:30, so she must have made a mad dash to arrive in this time. His courteous little bird, not wanting to keep anyone waiting, not even her faithful hound.

She wore her hair up today in a net, not as she usually did. She was dressed very smartly for one in a rush, with one of those hats with the sloping brim and black veil attached.

Was the little bird trying to hide herself?

He didn’t know whether to feel hurt or relieved at her discretion.

In contrast to her sophisticated get-up, her face held frenzied anxiety. She sat beside him. “Hello,” she said out of breath.

She sat holding herself in too stiffly, awkwardly. Her eyes ran over his face but never met his own.

 _I can’t look at him, I just can’t_ , she thought. _If I do, I’ll melt at the sight of his face. His dear, warm face. I won’t be able to do what I must. If I look into those eyes of his, I…I’ll see that he’s mine, my man. And then I won’t be able to…._

His stern voice brought her back to reality. “Hello yourself. Why we meeting here?”

The color left her cheeks. “I asked you here because you more than anyone deserve an explanation for what’s happened to me recently.”

Sandor’s eyes brightened, but he hid any other signs of eagerness. “Aye?”

She stared at her gloved hands. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’ve gone mad.”

Nothing more was said for several moments. At last, Sandor said, “I can’t judge either way if you don’t tell me.”

He saw her tremble slightly, then he felt a pang of pride as she stilled herself, forced herself to raise her head and face him.

She was far braver than she knew.

She began in a very quiet, odd voice. She sounded like one of those children of the forest: ancient, but forever young in their mystical, frost-bitten way. “When I was very little, my singing teacher Old Nan spoke to me of a Northern spirit called the Angel of Music….”

Very rapidly she told him all about the Angel, Old Nan’s lessons, and her hopes and dreams that someday…then she came to the day in her dressing room. “I heard his voice all round me, and Sandor, a voice like that doesn’t belong to a mere man! It _has_ to be the Angel!” 

He saw that even though she seemed mostly herself, her eyes still held that glassy look.

He shuddered again.

 _Was_ she mad?

He remembered the voice he himself heard.

No, she wasn’t mad. 

She gasped as he grabbed her arm. After speaking of something so unreal and unnatural, his large hand around her arm was a violent jolt back to reality.

His words were brutal, swift. “Don’t be daft, girl. It’s not an Angel you’re hearing. It’s Petyr Baelish.”

Sansa gawked at him in shocked disbelief. “Petyr Baelish? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t suspect his true nature! You think he brought you here out of the kindness of his heart? He’s lusted all these years for your mother, and here you come looking like her but younger, prettier. He knows this opera house well, little bird, he could do this if he wanted.”

Sansa shook her head, angry. “No. No. How would he know the story of the Angel of Music?”

“He knows your family” –

“He knows my _mother_. My mother isn’t _from_ the North. They haven’t spoken since she left Riverrun.” Fire in her now, she huffed, “Besides, I know Lord Baelish’s voice. The Angel’s voice, like I said, is like no mortal man’s I’ve ever heard.”

Sandor just stared at her darkly. He had no answer to those points. But in less than two years the girl would be twenty, so how could she still blithely believe in fairytales?

 _She isn’t herself, dog. Something’s happening to her._

But if not Baelish, who? Varys, maybe? He was a mysterious sort, and knew the opera house better than anyone.

Yet why would he care to deceive Sansa? Varys was every bit as clever and subtle as Baelish pretended, so why would he do something so outlandish? Could _Varys_ be infatuated with Sansa?

She was staring at her hands again and he couldn’t see her face. She twisted her fingers together anxiously. “I don’t blame you for not believing me at first, I certainly wouldn't, but…you do see now, don’t you?” Her voice quavered. “Or do you think I’m mad?”

He ground his teeth before answering. “No, little bird, I don’t think you’re mad.”

Relief filled her but then Sandor crushed her burst of hope beneath his heels. “I think you’re deceived.”

“Deceived?”

“Someone’s playing a nasty trick on you. Maybe not Baelish, but someone.”

Her voice had a hard edge now of frustration, impatience. “We’ve been through that! I keep telling you” –

“Aye, that the blighter in question has a voice oh-so above us mere mortals, I get that. But if he only speaks to you, my lady, how come some low common dog like me could hear him? Eh?”

Sansa froze. “…What?”

“I was listening outside your dressing room door after you fainted last night. I heard everything he said to you.”

For a moment, the confused jumble of emotion inside Sansa robbed her of speech. She reddened and shot out, “Liar!”

Anger flashed in Sandor’s eyes. “Oh, aye? A liar, am I?”

“Yes, you’re just trying to convince me” –

_“Sansa, you must love me.”_

For a split second Sansa's heart soared unwillingly. Then she remembered who originally spoke those words, and her heart dropped to her stomach. “…No.”

His words were laced with mocking honey. _“The angels wept tonight.”_

 _“NO.”_ Sandor was taken aback by her ferocious cry as she leapt to her feet. The boys across the way momentarily stopped their game to look over before kicking their ball again.

Sandor had never seen her so furious, so broken. 

“I…I don’t know what sort of trick this is,” she said through the hot tears suddenly pouring down her cheeks. “But it doesn’t matter. He insists I don’t see you anymore. He says I’m not meant for a normal life with a…with a man. He let me at first because he didn’t know how strongly I felt, and thought it was just a childish fancy. But when he observed us in our dressing room last night, he decided it’s gone far enough. So…I can’t see you anymore.”

She trembled still, but she nonetheless affected a perfect picture of dignity.

He was on his feet too, grabbing her and giving her a shake. “Don’t be a fucking fool.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She cried out. “I am mistress of my own actions, Sandor Clegane. I don’t want a man. I just want to sing. The Angel is helping me. So let me go!”

The sun turned her auburn hair a blaze and caught the madness in her glittering eyes. She was beautiful and terrible, and she was killing him.

Sandor let her go with something between a grunt and a bitter laugh. “I see it now. I see everything. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble making up some cock-and-bull story about an angel. You sick of my ugly mug, you could have just said so. You find somebody else? That’s fine. Go on, then. But don’t go acting like it’s some otherworldly shit, I don’t buy it.”

His words were heavy with contempt, but the strain in his voice, combined with his stiff stance like a hunted animal, gave away his lie.

“Sandor” – 

His smirk was unbearably nasty. “Unless of course, this is how you get your fun. Maybe you and your new man schemed up the tale together. A nice laugh at the Hound’s expense, is it?”

Sansa shook her head wordlessly and turned away.

He had her by the arm again, contempt from his voice gone and only rough urgency remaining. “Girl, don’t be a fool. You’re falling for something terrible” –

 _“Let me go.”_ She wrenched herself free. She stared at him with both violence and regret. She ran for the opera house, not looking back once.

Sandor kicked the bench with a roar. He no longer cared if the boys or anyone else saw him.

She didn’t care for him, she wanted him gone, she told him some bullshit story, Baelish was deceiving her, Varys was, no one was, she – she – she –

Sandor collapsed on the bench, covering his face with his hands.

She was in danger, and she’d just pushed him away.

She had no one now, and she was in danger.

The sun that pleasantly warmed him before was too bright and hot, the singing birds too intrusive. 

He hated this park. He hated those boys. He hated birds, trees, and everything under the gods-damned sun, including the sun.

He took her letter out of his pocket and re-read it.

_Yours, Sansa._

His face distorted into something unholy in his hideous grief. He tore the letter into fragments.

He could not throw them away, however. He instead placed them back in his vest pocket.

He walked back slowly to the opera house, head buzzing with heartbreak and fury, stunned.


	13. Chapter 13

Gendry Waters had no clue where he was. He knew he was backstage at the opera house, but that was about it. The hallway he was in was very narrow, and with all the people bustling through, the air was hot and made it difficult to find his bearings.

“Um, excuse me” – He tried asking two passing stagehands.

“Move it, kid,” one of the men said brusquely, brushing past him. They carried a backdrop painted like a hillside.

“All…all right, then.” He turned around and jumped back as a giggling horde of girls ran past in tutus.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but do you know where to find Sandor Clega” –

They were unhearing, bursting into shrill laughter as they rounded the corner.

Gendry stood flummoxed in the middle of the busy corridor. He scratched his head, looking back down at the paper in his hand:

“Bring references to Sandor Clegane’s office, the head stagehand”.

_Thanks a lot for all the details, Tobho._

Nearly seventeen years old without any family to speak of and here Gendry was without a job. He’d been Tobho Mott’s most talented apprentice, but King’s Landing’s famous blacksmith was wooed away by gold over honest work. Tywin Lannister had heard of Mott’s skill and offered him a gargantuan sum to open up a forge in Casterly Rock, out in the Westerlands.

However, Mott would have to hire people approved by Lannister himself. This meant Gendry was out: Lannister would not like a bastard working in a forge he’d frequent.

With some regard left in him for the boy, Tobho Mott told Gendry, “They’re always looking for strong hands and clear heads over at the opera house. If you can’t find work as a blacksmith there, I’m sure they’ll put you to work doing…well, something. Seek out the Hound, chief stagehand. He’s a fearsome man, but fair.” 

So here Gendry stood, looking over the terse note and the short reference Tobho supplied him with.

Gendry took in his surroundings again. It was as if a crowded street in the center of the city had been crammed into one cramped hall. Who the hells could he ask…?

Fingers poked his arm.

A young boy stared petulantly at him. He was wearing baggy, ill-fitting slacks and a ridiculously large cap that almost dwarfed the upper half of his face. He looked like he was drowning in his dusty trench coat. His gray eyes were alert and focused. 

“You know where Sansa Stark’s dressing room is?” The boy asked, fists stuffed awkwardly in his coat pockets.

Gendry blinked. Sansa Stark? He’d heard of her…wasn’t she that girl in all the papers this past month, the one blowing everybody away in Cersei Lannister’s role? 

Why should _he_ know where her dressing room was?

Oh. The boy probably thought he worked here. Gendry cleared his throat, blushing. “No, sorry. Um…” His blush deepened. “You don’t happen to know where Sandor Clegane’s office is, do you?”

The boy rolled his eyes, groaning in frustration. “Some help you are!” Without sparing Gendry another glance, the boy huffed off.

Gendry stared after him.

Something about the high note in that voice…the way the eyes rolled….

Gendry laughed softly as he started suspecting something rather amusing about this boy. 

He shrugged then decided to head off in the boy’s general direction. Who knows, maybe Clegane’s office was down that way.

 

Sansa entered her dressing room and sat wearily at her vanity. She stared into her dead eyes in the mirror there.

 _This_ mirror was safe. No one spoke to her from this mirror; no one commanded her. Here she felt almost herself.

She was exhausted.

She must keep singing, however. Singing and singing and singing.

He commanded her. She must do what he says, or else he’d leave, and that would mean Sansa turned away the Angel of Music, and…and....

She couldn’t think about it anymore.

She leaned her head into her open hand, massaging her forehead.

They didn’t have their lessons till the evening. It was early morning. She was safe for now.

She scolded herself. Safe from what? The Angel _protected_ her. How could she doubt that when he’d brought her such triumph? How could she doubt those sweet ethereal tones, the reassuring words?

When she mentioned evasively that someone else in the opera house had apparently heard him speak, he right away knew whom she spoke of. He only laughed gently and told her that he _meant_ Sandor Clegane to hear him. “Your admirer had to learn his place, Sansa. That was the only way I knew how.”

A soft light entered her lifeless eyes now. _Sandor._

In his arms she felt strength throughout this whole ordeal. With him she felt her soul was still her own. Now that avenue was closed to her. She had pushed him away.

They barely spoke now. Whenever she saw him, a bitter expression hardened his features and he’d turn away, back to his work.

Still, she felt his eyes on her as she sang. Often she encountered him nearby on her way to her dressing room, or just outside the theater. 

Watching over her, still.

Once she tried approaching him. She didn’t know why, only his silence was torturing her, so she had to try _something_. “Sandor….”

He didn’t turn away from the chair he was fixing. “Don’t bother, little bird.” Fathomless eyes glanced at her over his shoulder. “Not unless you admit you’re being duped.” He was serious.

They locked eyes for a long moment, then Sansa merely drifted away, unable to reply.

Nights were the worst. She’d lie awake and hear his deep rasping voice. Her whole body would shiver. She’d think of his broad shoulders, his hot tanned skin, his scratchy beard, his large muscular hands. She’d close her eyes tight and throw her arms around herself, imagining so desperately that they were his hard, warm, sturdy limbs. She pictured him clasping her to his chest until she almost cried in frustration.

He was not a conventionally handsome man, her Sandor. She knew this. She never expected herself to fall for someone like him; what she knew of romance she got from novels, and none of the heroes were quite like him.

Oh, there were brooding, frightening men in the gothic romances she read. Men strong and dark, and full of violence. As much as she tried convincing herself she was more attracted to the gentlemanly leading men in country house novels, she always found herself lingering on the cruel yet broken-hearted pathos of the mysterious Mr. Roderick in _The Governess and the Lady Upstairs_ , or the melancholic sneering of the rich but wronged Lord Draecyr in _Misunderstandings at Parrenwhick Manor_.

Even then, those men possessed an elegance that Sandor lacked. They were bitter and often brutal men, but their speech was florid and erudite. They articulated their sorrow and contempt with colorful verbosity.

Sandor, meanwhile, never minced words. He got straight to the point of any matter, employing coarse language that even those hot-headed fictional lords would gasp at in shock.

No, Sandor was too unrefined to be truly of their ilk. The Angel, though, with his wise, faraway voice -- sometimes stern, other times unspeakably gentle -- there, there were vast similarities to Sansa’s problematic anti-heroes.

Yet each night, it was no longer Roderick moaning ‘Jeyne, Jeyne’ across the moors as the governess left him that haunted her imagination. Instead she was tortured by a deep gravelly voice like steel scraping against stone muttering in her ear, “little bird… _little bird….”_

Just when she felt herself at the brink of madness tossing and turning, the Angel’s voice would suddenly enter her mind. He sang to her. He lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

He _must_ be a spirit. There was simply no way he was some mortal man deceiving her. How could she hear his voice ringing and ringing in her mind in the dead of night if he were an ordinary man?

Every time he spoke to her, sang to her, she felt a little piece of herself leaving her body. 

She was his puppet.

But no, that was the wrong way to consider it. She was his _vessel_. She was blessed with his genius. So who was she to question him? During their lessons, everything seemed just right, so natural that she should let him take over.

When she was away from him it was different. In the real world outside her dressing room, and especially in Sandor’s eyes, how awful and scary his power over her was.

She hesitantly opened her reticule and removed an envelope. She swallowed.

Here, too, was something that promised to be awful and scary, but in a far more irksome way. 

The seal of Winterfell Manor was stamped on the envelope.

_Another letter from Father and Mother._

With Sansa’s success came notices in the paper, reaching all the way up North to Winterfell. Her ruse was now over. This was the latest of four letters she’d received: one for each week since her debut.

When she first planned her grand King’s Landing adventure, her ideal scenario was to become successful just like this. When word inevitably reached Winterfell, her triumph would surely outweigh any outrage her parents might initially feel at her deceit – just like what happened between Lyanna and _her_ father.

Deep down she knew, however, what awaited her the first time the Tyrell’s butler brought her a letter as the three women breakfasted together.

Instead of smug satisfaction, all she felt was dread when she saw that seal.

As she read the letter through, she knew right away her gut feeling was justified.

The letter was stern and frank: _we’re very disappointed in you young lady stop this instant come home at once you’ve broken our trust for gods’ sake Sansa anything could have happened to you WHAT WERE YOU THINKING –_

Flushed, she hid the letter in her lap and told Margaery and Olenna that her parents sent her congratulations.

Two more letters followed of the same nature, each more impatient in tone than the last. Now there was this one.

Once upon a time Sansa would have been crushed by their anger, their disapproval. Sansa strived her whole life for people to love and approve of her; what bigger slap in the face than to receive censure and fury from her parents, whose esteem she valued over all others?

Now, however, she only took in the notes vaguely, as if the letters were the slightest of headaches in the midst of a far more serious illness. Sandor and the Angel, prepping for the performances, interviewing with journalists, greeting and dodging admirers outside the opera house – all that took precedence. These obstacles were in the present right in front of her; in comparison, her parents were so far away.

Sansa was only able to glance at this latest letter – _young lady this is the last straw you haven’t even replied to any of our letters yet_ – before she stiffened, hearing a loud clunk in her closet. She heard a stifled exclamation.

Her heart stopped.

_The closet. The closet. The closet where Joffrey was found._

The blood pounded in her temples, causing her to sway slightly in her seat.

She opened her mouth to call out – whether to the Angel or to Sandor to help her she didn’t know -- but nothing came out. She heard more shifting inside the closet.

She looked down at the letter’s handwriting and a rush of strength renewed her.

_I am Sansa Stark, daughter to Lord and Lady Stark of Winterfell. No one can scare me._

Recklessly she leapt to her feet and threw the closet doors open.

A small figure in street clothes fell onto the floor with a loud “Oof!”

“Who are you?” Sansa cried.

She pulled off the dazed boy’s cap and he raised his head, revealing – 

_“Arya?!”_

Her little sister sat sullenly on the floor in front of her. 

Sansa shook her head, unable to take the situation in right away. Then: “What…are…you…doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too, sis.” Arya said, lifting herself up and brushing off the dust on her jacket. “That damned closet’s so cramped. I’ll be black and blue all over tomorrow.” At Sansa’s flabbergasted look, she added, “I’m not spying on you, I’ve only been in there a couple minutes! I found your dressing room and jimmied the lock. The second I got in, I heard the doorknob turn, so I jumped in here. I didn’t know it was you, I thought maybe it was your maid.”

Sansa still couldn’t believe it. She ran her eyes all over the disguised girl. “Arya…your _hair_ ….”

Arya replicated the moan she inflicted earlier on Gendry in an even more aggravated key. “Oh, my gods! Of course _that_ would be the one thing you’re worried about.” She ran her fingers through the short brown strands. “I like it better this way. Less bothersome.”

Sansa was still shocked but anger was quickly taking over. “Arya, I can’t believe this. Chopping off all your hair, hiding in my closet…you’re nearly fourteen years old, practically a lady! You’re far too old to behave like this!”

Another groan from Arya, along with a stomped foot. “I keep telling you, I don’t _want_ to be a lady. They never have any fun. Besides,” she added, eyes glinting mischievously, “ _You’re_ a runaway too, _lady_.”

Sansa fidgeted, annoyed. “That’s different.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is! I had good reason to run away. Plus I’m older.”

Arya snorted in a markedly unladylike manner.

Sansa grimaced. “Well, what’s _your_ great reason for running away, hm? With your voice you certainly couldn’t join the stage.”

Arya’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I don’t _want_ to join the stage. I hear you have to wear makeup. Blugh! No, I’ll be a stagehand or something,” she said confidently, looking curiously around the dressing room. She adapted quickly and was obviously feeling more at home.

Sansa slapped her hand away from a bowl of lemon-flavored candies on Sansa’s vanity. “You still haven’t answered just why you decided to up and follow me here.”

“It’s all your fault,” Arya shot back. “You should have seen Mother and Father when they read what you’d done! Seven Hells! Mother all wrathful, Father worried to death…so who do you think they took it all out on? Me!” Her face was red. “Do you know what they were going to do? Do you?”

Sansa widened her eyes in mock suspense. “What?”

“They were going to send me to that damned finishing school, Madame Mordane’s!” She was a mortified picture of indignant distress.

Sansa burst into laughter.

Arya swatted at her with her cap. “It’s not funny, stupid!”

“You make Madame Mordane’s sound like some sort of torture chamber! It’s true, though, I can’t quite picture you there.” She laughed again.

Arya scowled. “I can’t picture me there, either. It _is_ a torture chamber. I remember everything you and Jeyne said about the place: dance lessons, singing lessons, etiquette, eloctition” –

“Eloc _u_ tion.”

“Whatever. And needlepoint!” Arya cried, collapsing in Sansa’s armchair. She ran her hands through her short hair in agony. “As if it’s not bad enough at home with Mother always on me to work on my needlepoint, I can’t imagine hours of it with stuffy young ladies who only talk about boys and parties.” She glowered at Sansa. “Like _you_.”

“Hm,” Sansa responded, grinning. “Those little meetings were always my favorite part about staying at Madame Mordane’s.”

She pulled up a chair next to Arya’s and sat down. “You are a bit young to go, though.”

“That’s why it’s your fault. Mother and Father were going to wait or maybe just keep me at home indefinitely. But when they’d learned what you’d done, they figured that if _you_ turned out this bad, that _I_ would probably be much worse, so I needed to learn how to be a proper lady even earlier than you.” She shuddered.

"Did they really say I was bad?”

Arya was taken aback by her sister’s small voice. Sansa looked terribly woebegone.

Arya softened just a bit. “They didn’t actually use the word ‘bad’. Just…it’s just the impression I got, that’s all.”

“But they haven’t come to get me.” Sansa concentrated on smoothing a wrinkle on her gown, avoiding Arya’s gaze. “Certainly they must hate me if they’re doing nothing more than sending angry letters. Or maybe they just don’t care.”

“They do care, Sansa!” Arya cried, enmity toward her sister momentarily forgotten. “They do, it’s just…” She squirmed.

Sansa frowned. “What?”

Arya at last relented. “Father can’t get away just now. The sheep. We lost half of them to bloat.”

Sansa’s face lost all color. _“Half?”_

Much of the manor’s little financial stability depended on wool and the sheep’s meat.

_Half._

Arya hurried to assuage her sister’s fears. “It’s not a total disaster! Uncle Benjen’s coming to our aid. His sheep overbred, so he’ll hopefully be able to bring the excess numbers down to Winterfell. It will take a couple weeks, though, and then Father will be busy branding them and counting them, and Mother will need to help run the rest of the farm while he does. Robb’s still away at University” –

“Yes, yes, I see it now,” Sansa said, distracted. She felt awful. All her ambitions, fantasies, and haughty hurt feelings vanished and in their place came shame. 

They _did_ care about her, and she went and scared them like this while the sheep were dying! How could she be so selfish?

She didn’t deserve her success. She didn’t deserve the Angel.

What a dreadful girl she was.

Arya studied her sister. In the few months since Arya last saw her, Sansa looked even prettier than usual. She was more sophisticated. Her hair was pinned away from her face in some fancy fashion by shiny amber combs, and her gown was all shimmery and elegant and…well…a little lower in the neckline than Arya usually saw in Winterfell.

There was something sort of strange about her, though. Arya couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was paler, more distracted, and not just from learning about the sheep, either.

She looked both sadder and – sort of otherworldly?

Arya shifted uncomfortable. As always, she felt like such a low grimy thing next to her older sister. As always, this made her bitter.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t even be in this mess if you hadn’t run off like an idiot,” she said out the corner of her mouth.

Arya’s words struck too close to home. Sansa stood, her eyes burning through her sister. “I wouldn’t even have left home if you hadn’t goaded me.”

Arya was honestly perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“‘You’re such a prissy ninny, Sansa! You’re so boring! Why can’t you ever do anything fun or exciting?’” Sansa mimicked her sister. “How do you think that felt?”

Arya was on her feet as well, fists in little balls. “How do you think _I’ve_ felt all these years? Ever since we were little, it’s been ‘Arya Horseface’, ‘Arya Underfoot’, ‘Arya, you look like a stable boy’, blah, blah blah!” She sniffed contemptuously. “Glad you finally got a taste of your own medicine. Feels lousy, doesn’t it?”

A thick moment of silence as the sisters stared at each other. 

Arya coughed, red. She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. She was obviously embarrassed by her outburst. Still, her sister could see the real hurt in her face.

Sansa was stunned. “You never said anything before.”

Another cavalier sniff from Arya as the younger girl avoided Sansa’s eyes.

“Honest, I didn’t think you cared that much.”

“I don’t. It’s stupid. Forget about it.” Her voice was too quick, however. 

The silence stretched on.

Then: “I’m sorry.”

Arya turned to Sansa, gob-smacked. “You’re _sorry?”_

Sansa was looking down again. “Yes,” she said, very quietly. 

It was the older Stark girl who sniffed this time. Arya was alarmed when she saw it was because she was crying.

Arya ran to her sister, patting her arm. “Hey, hey! Don’t cry! It…it doesn’t matter, really.”

“Yes, it does,” Sansa said through her tears. “I’ve been a wicked, awful sister. Just like I’ve been a wicked, awful daughter.” She covered her face in her hands and cried in earnest.

“No, you haven’t!” Arya tried to reassure her, continuing to pat her arm with erratic zeal. “You’re a good daughter! And sister! It’s just…we tease each other sometimes, that’s all!”

Sansa crumpled into her chair with uncharacteristic lack of grace. “No, no, I’ve bullied you. And here I am older than you, too! I should know better! I’m so stupid! Here I thought I was a little lady, all proper and nice, when it turns out I’m nothing more than a bad girl who bullies her sister and scares her parents half to death. I don’t deserve – oh, I don’t deserve anything!”

Arya knelt by her sister, using her comically large jacket sleeve to wipe away her sister’s tears. “You _are_ a lady. A _kind_ lady! Hells, you’ve stuck up for me more times than I can count! You covered for me that time I burned my skirt standing next to the fire. Remember? You patched it up before Mother could see. And when I get sick you always sing me to sleep and tickle me to get my mind off it.”

Sansa laughed a little through her tears. “You are awfully ticklish.”

“Not as ticklish as _you_.” Arya proved her point by scratching Sansa’s ribs.

Sansa shrieked in mirth and pushed Arya gently. Arya giggled, thrilled her sister was cheering up.

Sansa took hold of Arya’s jacket sleeve, looking it over. “Where in the Seven Kingdoms did you even _get_ this costume?”

“Mycah, the butcher’s boy. He’s a lot bigger than I am now.”

“I should say,” Sansa said, looking her sister over.

Arya might not ever be as beautiful as Lyanna, but from everything Sansa heard and portraits she’d seen, Arya did have her look. Even if she was never as beautiful, she promised to be just as striking, with her windy gray eyes, dark hair, and wild smile. It would take a couple more years, that’s all.

Sansa gave Arya her own smile, but it was a regretful one. “Oh, Arya, I don’t think you can stay. It’s madness.”

“You _have_ to let me stay!” Arya said eagerly. “It’s not fair that you get to run away and I don’t!”

Sansa rolled her eyes. Although they were back to arguing, it was at least more light-hearted. “It doesn’t work like that, Arya.”

Arya’s eyes were so pitiful and pleading. “Sansa, _please.”_

“Arya….”

“Come on, Sansa. If you send me back, I’ll…I’ll….” In a heartrending voice, she finished, “I just want an adventure!”

It was the threat of tears in Arya’s own brave gray eyes that did Sansa in.

She was just about to answer when the dressing room door flew open, both girls turning in surprise.

Gendry stared contrite at both of them, face red. “Oh! Um, sorry…I guess this isn’t the stagehand’s office, either….” He started backing away.

Arya laughed like a donkey. “You _still_ haven’t found it?”

“You know this boy?” Sansa asked in wonder. It always mystified her how Arya made friends with simply _everyone_. Why, Sansa hadn’t ever even _seen_ this boy before!

Arya raced up to him jauntily. “Not really. We were both lost and asked each other for directions.” She giggled again. “What’s your name?”

“Gendry Waters.” He smiled slowly. “What’s _your_ name, miss?”

“It’s” – Arya suddenly blanched. “Wait a minute! What do you mean, ‘miss’?”

There was laughter in his blue eyes. “Just what I said.”

Arya was furious. “How did you know?”

Sansa sighed. Arya could be a fine little trickster when she wanted, but when found out like this, she had no aplomb.

Gendry only smiled wider. He shrugged. “Could just tell, that’s all.”

As Arya silently fumed, an idea came to Sansa. “You’re new here, aren’t you, young man?”

Gendry was nonplussed in a lightly amused way. _Young man._ This girl could hardly be more than a year or so older, and here she was calling him young man! 

“Yes, miss. I’m a blacksmith by trade, but I lost my job. I’m looking for Sandor Clegane’s office.”

Arya saw the slight flush in her sister’s cheeks at that name.

“Come with me,” Sansa said suddenly. She took them both by the hand, leading them out her door.

Gendry was certainly puzzled by this pair. The high-class young lady and vagabond girl looked completely different, but both were apparently headstrong in their own unique ways. Almost like sisters.

Arya, too, was impressed by the sudden way Sansa was taking charge. 

Whatever was going on with her, Arya found she was liking this change in her sister more and more. Maybe she was growing up here.

 

Sandor sat at his stool in his office. In truth, office was an inadequate name for the little windowed wall he sat behind. Still, it was in a good location right near the rafters, where he could easily see people go by, but still isolated enough in the corner that distractions were minimal.

He read over the attendance roster. If Preston Greenfield stayed home sick from drink one more time….

A sharp tap on the open door.

“What,” he said brusquely without looking up from his papers.

“Mr. Clegane?”

Again that damn catch in his throat. 

It hurt him somewhere vital to hear her call him that again instead of his given name.

He glanced up.

She stood there as queenly and proper as ever, which made a hilarious juxtaposition to the fact that in one hand she held that of a wild-looking young girl dressed in boy’s clothes about two sizes too big for her.

His amusement vanished and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end when he saw that in her other hand, she held the wrist of a handsome young man about her age.

He fought his first instinct to bat the boy away from her. “What?” He repeated, voice sharper now.

Sansa couldn’t help the tiny thrill she felt at his guarded but obvious jealousy. _I knew deep down he still cared, but it’s still nice to see it._

She shook away the thought and approached him. 

Arya watched intrigued and unsettled as Sansa whispered to the big burned man before them. The light hand she placed on his arm and her physical closeness to him was so…familiar. 

And the man, with his mass of scars and big bullish face…as she spoke his eyes sparked with something….

Arya didn’t understand and it made her slightly uneasy.

After Sansa finished whispering her tale to him, his eyes landed on Arya. He laughed rudely in that deep bellowing voice of his. “You? _You’re_ the little sister?”

His laughter rankled with Arya. “What of it? What’s so crazy about that?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t look much alike, do you?”

Arya felt her temper rising. _Everyone’s always the same. I’ll always come second to oh-so-perfect Sansa._ She already disliked this man intensely. “You’re one to talk about looks!”

“Arya!” Sansa scolded her. There was a more vehement edge to her rebuke than usual. Arya was bewildered. Why should Sansa care that much about this big ugly idiot?

Sandor only laughed again. “Don’t chirp so angry, little bird. I like the she-wolf’s honesty.” 

He turned indifferently to Gendry. Now that he knew the boy was nothing more than a recent acquaintance of Sansa's, his interest in him was noticeably diminished. “And you, boy. You need a job?”

Gendry nodded courteously. “Yes, sir.”

Sandor was about to speak, but Sansa cut in: “He’s no ‘sir’.”

Arya was really confused now. She said that like she was _teasing_ this Sandor Clegane.

Sansa didn’t tease people she barely knew! It wasn’t courteous.

She looked expectantly at him, like she was desperately trying to rouse him to…to do something. Crack a smile? 

Instead Clegane just glared at her stonily. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at Gendry and Arya again. “Either of you know how to deal with horses?”

Arya brightened immediately. “Yes, yes, I do! I love horses!”

Sandor wrote something down. “All right. I’ll put you in the stables, then.”

“Yes!” Arya exclaimed, jumping and throwing her fist in the air.

“San – Mr. Clegane, are you sure that’s safe?” Arya wanted to tell Sansa to keep her mouth shut. Gods, she could be just like Mother sometimes!

“Safe enough,” Sandor said. “But we’re definitely understaffed down there. All we have is Preston Greenfield, and he’s blind drunk most of the time.”

Sansa’s face showed her distaste. “Yes, but it’s so dark down there, and dirty.”

“That’s perfect for me,” Arya said, grinning wickedly.

A soft cough from Gendry caught their attention. “Um, hate to be a bother, but, see, I’m a blacksmith by trade….”

“So?” Sandor asked carelessly.

Gendry reddened. “Well, I can’t say that I myself have much experience with horses.”

Sansa shrugged lightly. “Horses need horseshoes, don’t they?”

“…I suppose….”

She graced everyone present with a bright smile. “Well, that’s all settled then.” Her gaze softened as she addressed Sandor. “Thank you.”

Arya’s eyes darted back and forth between her and that man. His eyes glowed with strange, burning reverence as he regarded Arya’s sister. _What the hells is going on here?_

Before Arya and Gendry parted ways with Sansa to investigate the opera’s stables located beneath the forecourt, Sansa pulled her sister aside. “Wait for me outside my dressing room at half past eight. _No earlier_.” She emphasized the last part, jabbing a finger at Arya.

“All right, all right!” Arya said, mildly surprised Sansa was so adamant about that. “What then?”

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “I guess I’ll have to come up with quite the song and dance for the Tyrells. They’ll be curious why a little opera urchin boy is coming home with me.”


	14. Chapter 14

“Don’t pick at your food,” Sansa whisper-hissed to the sullen young figure as they breakfasted with the Tyrells.

Her sister glowered through her chopped hair falling into her eyes.

Sansa smiled pleasantly at Olenna and Margaery. Normality. That’s what she was going for. Normality.

Overall, the past couple weeks had gone by relatively smoothly. That first night, Olenna had merely raised a quizzical eyebrow when Sansa dragged in the undomesticated-looking scamp dressed in oversized street clothes.

Sansa conjured her best acting skills and dove into her story. “Madame Olenna, I hate to impose on you this way, but this is Arry, a stable boy from Winterfell. I’ve acted as sort of his sponsor for a few years now. He always showed such promise. Well, his father is sick and can’t work, so Arry just showed up today asking for work and a place to stay. I feel so responsible for him! Is there any way” –

Eyes gleaming more humorously than ever, Olenna interrupted her. “Of course, Arry shall stay here. He can have Loras’s room. My grandson’s never around to use it.”

Neither grandmother nor granddaughter seemed inclined to interrogate them further, and so it was a simple measure of not revealing their true relationship by bickering too much.

On mornings such as this, that was difficult.

“Arry,” Sansa said in a sweet tone through clenched teeth. “You mustn’t eat your peas with a knife.”

“But Gendry does!”

“Yes, well, Mr. Waters isn’t here, is he? We are in the home of the Tyrells now.” Keep smiling. Everything’s fine and pleasant.

Arya shrugged. “Takes less time than trying to stab them with a fork like an idiot, _Miss Stark.”_ She flinched. “Ouch!” She glared at Sansa.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Arry. I guess my foot slipped.” Were they really raised by the same people?

She cast a sidelong glance at the Tyrells. Olenna and Margaery looked as indifferently cheerful as ever, eating their omelettes.

Sansa sighed in relief.

She felt herself on the verge of a nervous breakdown constantly these days.

Still, Arya was adjusting well – she certainly enjoyed working with the Waters boy, constantly speaking of him (although making sure to end any story about him by rolling her eyes and saying, “he’s _so stupid”_ ). She stayed mostly in her place, so was barely noticed around the opera house.

However, Sansa could not let herself fully relax about…anything.

She shifted her food around her plate, scarcely touching it. _Now who's picking at their food_ , she chided herself.

She could hear the Angel’s voice ringing in her ears.

He’d not said much to her about Arya. Whenever she spoke of her worries that she and her sister might get caught, he’d sigh heavily, voice full of some sort of melancholic darkness. All he would say in reply was, “Sing, Sansa. _Sing.”_

And sing she would. As usual, what should have been an ecstatic experience for her instead turned into a disorienting out-of-body sensation. She’d find herself floating high above the dressing room, hearing herself sing notes unheard of by human ears before, but feeling as connected to that voice as a castaway does to a ship disappearing on the horizon.

Yet still, still, that was the only time she felt true peace now.

Meanwhile, she still passed Sandor each time she walked onstage. She continued daydreaming about his warm arms, his husky voice. She yearned to unload all her worries in his lap in that little office. Back before the Angel forbid it, she could tell him everything there – about her annoying little sister Arya back home, about studious, carefree Bran, baby Rickon, teasing Robb. Sweet Lady. He’d not say much, stroking her hair, but he listened to her. Truly listened.

Yet even then, there was the distance: she could not tell him about the Angel. And when she finally did, it was to part ways with Sandor.

“San – Miss Stark,” Arya said, intruding on her thoughts.

Sansa blinked. She noticed Arya and the Tyrells looking at her expectantly. The butler was handing her a note.

Sansa flushed with embarrassment. She’d drifted off again.

She accepted the note, thanking the butler quietly. She half-expected another missive from her parents. They had not written to her since Arya’s arrival, but maybe now –

No. It was from the opera.

She read it, then stood. “Excuse me, Madame Olenna. Margaery. This is from the managers. They need to see me. Come, Arry.”

Arya stuffed a few bread rolls in her coat pocket (the Tyrells secured Arry better fitting clothes, but the pockets on this new jacket were still roomy enough for snacks). She ran after her sister.

The Tyrell ladies maintained their neutral expressions until the door closed behind the two, then they chuckled together.

“It’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight face around them, Grandmama,” Margaery said, sipping her tea.

“Yes, our dear Sansa really thinks she has us fooled. ‘Arry’.” The older woman shook her head.

“You’ve written to the Starks, haven’t you?”

“Mm,” Olenna said. “I wrote Lady Stark that Arya was safe and with us, and she just wrote back that the bastard, Jon Snow, will come collect both girls once his tour of duty is done.”

Margaery raised an eyebrow. “Catelyn Stark actually mentioned the bastard?”

“These are unusual times for the Starks, you must remember. Two runaways! Two!”

Margaery’s eyes widened. “Two of them? You mean, Sansa?” At Olenna’s nod, she whistled. “Well, our sweet girl _did_ have me fooled on that end. Nice to know there’s that much spirit in her. Still, it’s almost a little insulting she thought us dumb enough to buy her story. I mean, _Arry? Really?_ ” Sansa had told Margaery more than enough stories about her contentious relationship with Arya that Margaery immediately recognized the dynamic between Sansa and the boy with the name quite similar to her younger sister.

“I think the two are more alike than they realize,” Olenna commented.

The two ladies shared one more laugh then continued their breakfast in perfect equanimity.

 

“Don’t kick the seat, Arya,” Sansa scolded her sister absently on their way to the opera house, the coach jostling them slightly.

Arya stuck her tongue out. Sansa did not notice, staring ahead into nothing.

Arya shifted in her seat, attacked once more by a feeling she did not like but was experiencing more and more these days: fear for her sister.

She scratched her head then tried initiating a conversation. “So…um…how’s it going onstage, anyway?”

“Fine,” was all Sansa said, expression unchanging.

Arya tried again. “What’s it like, singing in front of a crowd like that?” Arya often sneaked upstairs with Gendry to watch her sister perform. Arya would never admit it, but she found herself in awe of the radiant figure her older sister made, singing in that unreal voice.

That sister only shrugged now. “It’s all right, I guess.”

Arya couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s wrong with you, anyhow?”

Sansa furrowed her brow, annoyed. “What do you mean?”

“You’re so…I don’t know! Distracted these days.”

“Well, what do you expect? I have a lot on my plate.” She suddenly looked her sister over, softening. “How about you? Is everything really all right in the stables?”

“Yes, yes. Gendry and I get by just fine.”

“Well, you make sure he never assumes that just because you’re disguised as a boy you’re not a lady. Don’t let him talk to you in language unsuitable for feminine ears. You’re far too young” –

“Good gods, Sansa! All right, all right!” Arya slumped down in her seat, pulling her cap down over her ears to shut out Sansa’s prissy talk. They were getting along better lately, but that didn’t mean sometimes Arya still didn’t want to throttle her comically genteel sister. “I might as well be at Madame Mordane’s the way you go on.”

She cast a quick glance at her sister. She expected a haughty retort.

Instead Sansa acquiesced and stared ahead, blindly, steadily.

It gave Arya such a case of the creeps she grew bold.

“You’re one to talk, Sansa, when you moon over the Hound of all people.”

Sansa’s shoulders seized like a frightened cat’s. The eyes she turned to Arya were hard and bright. “What do you mean?” Her voice shook.

Arya crossed her arms, refusing to feel intimidated by that look. “Just what I said. I see you trying to talk to him sometimes, and him shutting you down all angry. Hurt, almost. I see you looking at him when he’s not looking, and him looking at you when you’re not looking. It’s sickening.”

She was secretly satisfied at the sign of life in Sansa’s face, even if it was anger. “You’re not _supposed_ to be seeing _anything_ backstage. You’re _supposed_ to stay down in the stables.”

“I can’t spend all day down there, I’d get rickets in the dark! Gendry and I do have to get some air, and so do the horses. Besides, you and the Hound both want to see Stranger.”

Sansa looked down with a bashful, strange sense of shame. Stranger was a mighty black stallion that Sandor himself had helped break in. Now that she and he were barely speaking, Sansa often found herself drawn to the stables to see Stranger, feeding him carrots under the guise of visiting her sister. It…it was some small way to feel close to the chief stagehand.

Arya watched her face carefully now, and disgust mixed with wonder filled her own. “Gods, Sansa! You really do care for the Hound, don’t you? I was mostly kidding!” She had thought it odd how Sansa lingered near him, but Arya assumed Sansa mostly just pitied him.

Sansa said nothing.

Arya couldn’t believe it. Sansa…and the _Hound_. He wasn’t a complete jerk; he was kind to Stranger and he stepped in when some prop guys started picking on her for her size. But…Sansa fancying someone like _him?_

At last Sansa spoke. “You were right, Arya. Falling in love is a stupid, silly waste of time. It doesn’t bring you anything but loneliness in the end.”

Arya had never heard her sister sound so bitter.

“You’re in love with him?”

Silence.

There was a harder edge to Arya’s voice now. “Did he hurt you? Is that it?”

“Sandor would never hurt me,” Sansa said softly, leaning her forehead against the coach’s window. “I’m the one who hurt him.”

This information was so mind-boggling that not a word more was spoken for the rest of the ride.

 

Sansa entered the managers’ office to find Varys and Tyrion uncharacteristically awkward and tense. The two men stood stiffly around their desk. They split their gaze equally between Sansa and a figure she hadn’t seen right away.

A lady sat to the side, dressed in elegant black mourning. A black veil hid her features.

Sansa was so struck by the sight she simply stood staring for a moment.

Tyrion spoke without his usual sardonic tone. “Miss Stark, we can’t let you know how grateful we are for you playing Jonquil for so long. You’ve been remarkable, particularly since this is your first professional role. However….” He trailed off, eyeing the figure in black, who sat unmoving, unspeaking.

Varys finished for him. “…However, my dear, there has been a change of plans.” He, too, now gazed directly at the lady.

Sansa followed their eyes, and then she saw it: the hint of golden hair beneath the veil.

At that moment of recognition, Cersei lifted the veil to reveal herself.

Sansa shivered.

She was as beautiful as always, but all color was gone from her pale face. Her green eyes, always hostile and arrogant before, now shone with a righteous fury Sansa could only categorize as grief-induced insanity.

As if watching a nightmare unfold, Sansa stood dumb as Cersei slowly advanced toward her. 

“Cersei….” Tyrion said in a low voice, warning her.

Cersei faced Sansa much as she had when she showed up drunk to rehearsal, which seemed eons ago to the girl before her.

She looked and looked at Sansa.

Sansa was sure she’d never forget the look of wildfire in those green eyes.

The older woman's voice was relatively mild, clashing with her words. “I’m back, little dove. I’m reclaiming my place here. You will return to your measly role as Jonquil’s sister. I could have you fired, but I won’t. I want you there, behind me, as I reclaim what you’ve taken from me.”

She placed a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper: “And I know, I just know you had something to do with this. With my son’s death. I know it in my heart, which never fails a mother. I will not stop until I find you out and see you behind bars.”

Cersei smiled at her, so sweetly.

Sansa could only swallow drily as Cersei gracefully made her exit. The returned diva left the three behind her in stunned silence.

 

Catelyn paused looking over the accounts at her desk. She surveyed the fields outside her study’s window. A thin layer of frost coated the grass, and a slight breeze made the distant trees wave back and forth.

 _Oh gods, Benjen, please come through,_ she thought. The biting temperature was hard enough on their crops, and without the sheep….

She was interrupted from her musings by Ned’s sharp voice from the doorway. “Cat, what is this?”

She turned. Ned’s boots were caked in mud, having made his rounds in the fields. He just came from the dining room, where Cat had left her correspondence.

He held up a letter from Jon.

Cat sucked in a preparatory breath. “You’ve read it, Ned. You know what it is. I simply took the initiative and wrote to him about the girls. He's agreed. That's all.”

Ned’s eyes, usually as steady and icy as the frosty hills, were alive now with a storm of worry. “Since when do you write to Jon about anything?”

Cat tried to keep her temper down. “Well, you’re always on about how I should be kinder to him” –

“I have very seldom asked you to” –

“And since we both cannot be spared right now, and Robb is in the middle of exams, I thought it prudent to ask him to go to King’s Landing.” She buried herself in scribbling on her ledger. “After all, since you insisted on raising Jon with our children, he might as well answer the call of duty for us as well as to the military.” Her cheeks reddened. “Don’t worry, I was very civil,” she said in a clipped voice.

“Cat, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Cat was alarmed by the hoarse heaviness in his voice. Real worry replaced her bitterness. “My love, what is it? What does it matter? You hate King’s Landing, I thought I’d spare you the bad memories involved!”

Ned could tell his darling Cat was telling the truth, so his face softened. His eyes maintained their dark heartbreak, however. “Oh, Cat. I’d rather go back down and face those awful memories a million times over than have Jon visit that city – that opera house – even once.”

Without a word more, he turned and walked leadenly upstairs, leaving his wife staring mystified after him.

 


	15. Chapter 15

“Would you just please, please do me the great honor and privilege of at least reading the thing before you dismiss me out of hand?” Tyrion’s eyes burned into Baelish’s. The manager thrust the opened envelope into his employer’s hand.

It was just after lunchtime, the cast hurrying to prepare themselves for the evening performance. Tonight was Cersei’s grand return to the stage.

Tyrion had just spent the last ten minutes competing with telegrams and expense accounts for Petyr’s attention. A letter had arrived in the managers’ office signed O.G.: Opera Ghost. When Tyrion turned to inform Varys, he found his fellow manager gone.

Temper up, Tyrion marched to Baelish’s office instead.

Baelish had barely looked up when Tyrion came into his office, brandishing the note. Sneeringly, Baelish accepted it now. He registered the dark red skull that served as the seal, then he removed the letter. 

He murmured aloud, _“Sansa Stark will continue her role as Jonquil tonight, or a disaster beyond imagination shall occur. Remember, there are worse things than a boy hanged in a closet. Your obedient servant, O.G.”_

The only reaction from Petyr was a slight twitch of his mustache.

“Well?” Tyrion prompted.

“Well, what?” Petyr responded with a curt laugh, flinging the letter on his desk. “This is nothing.”

“Nothing!” Tyrion couldn’t believe it. “You call a threat like that nothing?”

“I do,” Petyr said sharply. “And furthermore, I’m surprised you don’t. Surely you are aware that there are pranksters out there?”

 _“Pranksters?”_ The usually silver-tongued Tyrion found himself reduced to parroting Baelish today. “The seal! It’s the same on all the other letters we’ve received over the years! You can’t be serious!”

“I am. Obviously Miss Stark has an admirer who’s put out she will no longer be performing the lead, and thinks to strike the fear of the gods in us by mentioning Joffrey. Anyone could have heard about this silly skull seal and replicated it.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Did it never occur to you that Joffrey was in fact murdered, and the murderer never actually found? Doesn’t that concern you at all?”

“Of course it does.”

“Well, maybe we should take this just a bit more seriously, then? Call me hysterical if you like, but I have a wild notion a threat of worse things to come than a murdered boy is maybe something one should take to the police.”

Petyr’s eyes flashed like lightning and he stood, towering over Tyrion. “You will _not_ inform the police, Tyrion.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but Petyr barked, “That is an order.”

Tyrion felt himself go red. If there was one thing he hated, it was when this slimy snake pulled rank on him. “Look here, Littlefinger, we both know who’s really in charge. If he found out” –

Baelish’s smile dripped with mockery. “You mean, what would happen if you ran to your daddy?” Tyrion was about to explode in fury, but Baelish continued. “I’ll tell you what would happen. He’d tell you to mind your own damn business and heed me. In effect, what I just told you.” More ingratiatingly, he added, “I have everything under control here. I promise you, no disaster beyond imagination will occur under my watch.”

Tyrion stared at him stonily.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, crystal clear.”

“You will not take this to the police?”

Tyrion was resigned. “No, I will not go to the police.”

Petyr visibly relaxed. Turning to leave, Tyrion shot over his shoulder, “But already more disasters have gone down under your watch than I should have allowed. You and I are on thin ice, Littlefinger.”

He slammed the door behind him.

All traces of salesmanship left Petyr’s expression. His face was hard and violent. He stared up to the ceiling. “You wouldn’t dare after everything I’ve done for you,” he hissed to the air.

 

“…So then Gendry told me that he once made a custom set of horseshoes for a really sick horse, that was shaped more like a heart instead of a ‘U’. He said that gave it more stability or something. All the horses here are too healthy for that, but he knows what to do if any of them get lame or sick.” 

Arya halted her chatter and looked at her sister. The younger Stark shivered.

Sansa was staring even more vacantly than usual into her vanity mirror.

It was an hour before curtain went up. Although Sansa was back in the role of Jonquil’s sister, she still used Cersei’s old dressing room; understandably, Cersei refused to return to the scene of her trauma and heartbreak.

Arya had come to hate this room. Whenever her already distant sister entered this dressing room, whatever was left of her soul seemed to vanish.

She looked more dead than alive right now.

Arya coughed and busied herself tying her shoe, trying to look casual as she asked, “You all right?”

Silence as Sansa stared and stared at herself.

There was a new insistent note in Arya’s voice now. “Sansa? Are you all right?”

Expression unchanging, Sansa spoke at last. “Arya, do you remember Old Nan telling us about the Angel of Music?”

Arya frowned. “Uh, only a little. That was _your_ favorite story. I didn’t pay much attention.”

In a faraway speculative voice, Sansa asked, “Did you ever wonder if stories like that could be true?”

Arya’s nose wrinkled. “About a musical angel? Gods, no. Dragons and Others, sure.” She studied her sister warily. “Why?”

A sadder look suddenly shaded Sansa's features. “No reason.”

There was a knock on the door. “Places in thirty minutes,” a voice called.

Arya hopped up. “I’d better go and see how Gendry’s doing. We like to check on the horses before the show to make sure they don’t get spooked by the music.”

“All right,” Sansa said in the same monotone. Her eyes never left the mirror.

Arya fidgeted awkwardly for a moment, then said, “Well, good luck.” She stood a moment more, and when her sister said nothing in reply, Arya sighed and left.

Sansa closed her eyes.

Such a sweet, strange feeling was engulfing her heart. She swayed as if tipsy.

She opened her eyes again. As she stared at her reflection, the image wavered, and then she heard his voice.

“Sansa, come to the mirror.”

Sansa knew which mirror he meant. She approached the wall-mounted mirror as if floating. She did not feel the ground beneath her feet.

Her reflection was little more than a blur through the thick fog in her eyes.

“You look beautiful tonight, my love.”

Ecstasy made Sansa smile brilliantly at the blurred reflection. The Angel loved her, took care of her. 

These thoughts were hers but they weren’t hers, floating above her.

The Angel continued. “Mark well where you stand, my dear. Something will happen tonight. A disturbance. You will know when it does. When it occurs, come back here, to this very spot. Tell no one and stop for no one. Wait for me here. _I will come for you at last.”_

 

As Gendry replenished the horses’ hay, Arya paced back and forth, airing her concerns.

“You don’t get it, Gendry! She never used to be like this! Whenever she’d talk about singing back home, she’d look so happy! It made me sick how dewy-eyed she’d get, but still, she was happy! She loved singing so much! All she ever dreamed of was singing for an audience.”

“And now you think she’s not enjoying herself?”

“That’s just it!” Arya was red in the face, gesticulating violently. “She doesn’t seem to be enjoying it _or_ hating it! She doesn’t seem to feel… _anything_ about it, one way or the other!” She huffed and sat on an upturned water pail, resting her sullen face in her hands. Her eyes were glumly contemplative. “What could it be?”

Gendry sniffed, shrugging. “Don’t know. She hasn’t given you any idea?”

Arya squirmed a bit. “No. Except – she just mentioned the Angel of Music to me, of all things.”

“Angel of Music? What’s that?”

“Oh, some stupid fairy story Old Nan used to tell us. She was our governess, sort of. It was just the kind of sappy tale Sansa always lapped up, instead of much better stories about battles and dragons. The Angel is supposed to look after all the great musicians and make sure they do everything right, or something dumb like that.”

Gendry smirked, patting down a horse. “Sort of like the good version of the Phantom, then?”

Arya blinked. “What?”

“Come on, you’ve heard of the Phantom. Hells, I think you’re the one who told me about him!”

Arya suddenly had that wolf look to her again that always caught Gendry’s attention. “Yes, I know. I know about the Phantom.” Arya ate up all the stories about the grotesque figure. A disfigured ghost who murdered people? Here in the opera house? Arya was always all ears for that.

But something else was preying on her mind now. “What do you mean, though, him being the bad version of the Angel?”

Gendry had no clue why Arya was latching onto this. “I…I don’t know! But I hear he left a note with the managers about how he wants your sister to sing Jonquil or else something terrible will happen. So, you know. Sort of like that Angel fellow, looking out for the singer but in a, well, violent way.”

Arya nodded slowly, chewing her bottom lip. She was deep in thought. “The Phantom….”

She stood suddenly. “We should find him.”

Gendry straightened from where he’d been inspecting a horse’s hoof, a trifle lost. “Find who?” 

“The Phantom!”

His eyebrows flew up to his hairline. “Why would we do that?”

Arya looked at him as if he were the slowest boy in the world. “Because if we find the Phantom, I bet we find out who’s making Sansa this way! Plus, we’ll find the murderer of Cersei’s son and that stagehand!”

Gendry looked at _her_ as if she were the _craziest_ girl in the world. “Um, you do realize the Phantom’s just talk, don’t you? He’s obviously not real.”

Arya reddened. “Well, someone’s going around killing people and bugging my sister. You’ll admit that, won’t you?”

“I, I guess.”

“So, maybe it’s not a ghost, but a real man! I’ve heard there are endless cellars downstairs, full of hiding places! Apparently back in the Middle Ages this used to be some sort of citadel where they’d bring people below to torture them and experiment on them. There are all kinds of dungeons and cells where a person could hide if he wanted to. I’ll bet whoever the madman is lives down there, and since we’re so close to the cellars, we could easily go look for – what is it?”

Gendry’s eyes had widened and he backed into the pail, knocking it over.

Arya looked behind him and couldn’t help squeaking in fear.

A large black silhouette loomed over them in the shadows.

After a tense moment of silence, the figure emerged.

They relaxed only a little when they saw the scarred face of Sandor Clegane.

The Hound leaned down and gruffly took Arya by the shoulder. “I heard that, little she-wolf. Now you listen to me: if I get wind you’ve gone exploring where you shouldn’t, I’ll take a crop to you. And you, blacksmith boy, same for you. Do you want to get your sister in trouble, wolf girl? Stay in your damn place.”

His deep voice reverberated throughout the stable in spite of its low volume.

He stared at her hard with his serious, violent eyes.

He let her go and retreated into the darkness.

Arya stared after him with mouth open. Gendry was much the same.

He whistled. “Remind me not to piss him off anytime soon.” He returned to watering the horses.

“What if it’s him?”

Gendry glanced at her. She was still staring at the shadows.

“What now?”

“The Phantom! What if the Hound is the Phantom?” 

Gendry snorted. “Well, that’s a stretch, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” With the excited determination of a puppy, she trailed after Gendry as he made his way down the stalls. “He’s big, he’s disfigured, and he knows this opera house like the back of his hand. Also, he and Sansa….” She stopped short, blushing. She wasn’t as tactful as her sister, but still Arya knew it wasn’t right to talk about Sansa's feelings for Sandor, even to Gendry. 

She tried backtracking. “Um…he’s got some fix on her, I can tell. She…she did something to hurt his feelings, and now he’s always watching her.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , he also is an angry sort of rotter, isn’t he? Broods all the time and is nasty. He fits the bill completely!”

“If you say so,” Gendry said dubiously.

She hit him with her jacket sleeve. “Come on! You have to admit it makes sense!”

“Do I?”

“Yes!” She stamped her foot. “I’d like to hear one of _your_ theories.”

Instead of supplying one, his mouth went slack again as he entered the last stall, Stranger’s stall. “What the” --

“What is it?”

“Stranger! He’s gone!”

_“What?”_

She looked. The stall was empty. There was no trace of the large, tempestuous stallion.

“Where could he have gone?” She asked bewildered.

“Did the Hound take him out or anything?”

“No, he would have told us! Wouldn’t he?”

Gendry ran his hand through his hair. “I guess somebody just stole him.”

Arya ground her teeth in thought, then: “The Phantom!”

Gendry felt at the end of his tether. “What _now_ about the Phantom?”

“Who else could have stolen him but the Phantom? Any of us would have seen him if he tried smuggling Stranger out above. He had to take him down below.”

Arya grabbed Gendry by his vest and pulled him closer. “What’s more, who besides Sansa does Stranger follow easily?” Through clenched teeth she hissed, _“Sandor Clegane.”_

Gendry stared gob-smacked into those gray eyes alive with righteous purpose. They only faintly heard the orchestra start the overture above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's not been much direct SanSan action in the last couple chapters, but that's because there are Big Doings coming in the next chapters! Hate to leave you hanging, so I'll try to update soon! :D


	16. Chapter 16

After putting the wolf girl and the blacksmith boy in their place, Sandor tightened a couple loose sandbags up in the rafters just before the overture began. As he reached the last rung on the ladder, he heard a voice behind him.

“Clegane, I’d like to speak with you.”

Turning, he saw no one at his eye line. He waved his hands before him. “Must be the opera ghost,” he muttered.

“You are hilarious, Clegane. Remind me to include you as entertainment at my next club soiree. Meanwhile, I actually have something rather delicate to ask of you.”

Sandor smirked down at Tyrion. “What could you possibly want of me, Imp?”

Tyrion held up a letter.

Sandor warily recognized the red skull seal. How many letters with that seal had he passed back and forth between Baelish and the managers?

He took it, eyeing Tyrion suspiciously.

He read it.

His dark eyes shot down to Tyrion's, flames dancing in the Hound’s irises.

 _I wonder if this large mutt does have something to do with all this_ , Tyrion privately mused. “‘A disaster beyond imagination’ will occur if our dear Miss Stark does not take the stage as Jonquil tonight,” Tyrion summarized. 

“Could just be a prank,” Sandor said too quickly. He practically pushed the letter back into Tyrion’s hand, as if it were on fire.

Tyrion laughed sardonically. “Why, that’s exactly what our good employer Lord Baelish said.” He smiled as Sandor scowled. Give the Hound this, he had the good sense to feel affronted at the comparison to Littlefinger.

“Anyway, I’m not so convinced. Someone was able to come in here and kill a stagehand and then my nephew, and then stuff said nephew into my sister’s dressing room closet. I hope this is no more than an ill-bred practical joker, but in case it isn’t…well, no one is as intimate with this place as you are, given the many little assignments Baelish sends you on. Keep an especial eye on everything tonight, will you?”

Sandor snorted derisively, bending down to move some crates. “What about Selmy and his men?”

The twist of Tyrion’s lips revealed his frustration. “Our good employer also requested that Selmy no longer post his men backstage during the opera. ‘Bad for morale’, he claimed. Since there hasn’t been any real disturbance since Joff’s death, he was able to finally convince Selmy – just in time for this letter to arrive.”

Sandor didn’t reply, but his face was drawn in bitter lines.

“You should also keep an eye on the Stark girl.” Sandor’s back stiffened. “Something odd is going on with her…unlike my sister, I don’t think it’s as dire as direct involvement in murder, but…well, the letter mentions her specifically….” He trailed off, lost in thought. Raising his eyebrows after a time, he said, “Just keep an eye out, like the good dog you are.” He inclined his head and left.

Sandor fumed. _Sansa._ So the rumors some pageboys lingering outside Baelish’s office spread were true: the Phantom wanted her to sing the lead role.

He kicked one of the crates as the music started.

 

The instant Arya became aware of the music above, she sped to the higher levels, Gendry behind her.

“We can’t keep sneaking up here during performances! We’re bound to get caught!”

“Not unless you look all nervous about it! That’s a sure way to bring attention to ourselves! Just act natural.”

“Now, see here” –

“We have to look after Sansa!”

So saying, Arya dove behind the very pile of crates Sandor had packed near the right wing. She climbed on top of the bottom crate and peered over the one in front of it.

Helpless, Gendry crouched down behind her. He could just leave and head back to the stables, abandoning the girl to whatever trouble she was bound to get herself into.

But seeing those determined, caring eyes peer out over those heavy crates, Gendry stayed put, crouching.

 

Sandor was securing the ropes on one of the village set pieces as the overture finished. Outwardly he revealed nothing but single-minded focus, while internally he was desperately trying to stoke the flames raging, scorching him.

This was nothing new now. This was his usual cycle whenever he knew he’d see her.

He told himself, again and again, that what was done was done, and to forget about Sansa Stark. It had been an odd romantic episode, unusual for the Hound of all people, but a short episode, at least. The girl was either mad or had come up with some deliberate lie to evade him.

He told himself this so often he almost believed it, until he saw her – and at night.

With night came dreams. He dreamed of her. He dreamed of her blue eyes wide with mesmerized terror. He dreamed of her singing alone, kneeling in a dark space where only a dim light shone on her. She sang and cried, yearning for release, but still she sang, and her voice was so terrified and lost….

When he woke from those dreams, he was overwhelmed with fury at himself for still, deep in the caverns of his fucked up brain, caring about her. 

His engrossment with her had become so much a part of him that it was as if he had an extra limb or organ, something he always carried around with him, always. Someone born with eleven fingers does not always notice the extra appendage. However, it is always there, as much a part of that person as the other ten.

Sandor could convince himself he’d moved on from the girl, but still he positioned himself in the wings so her bright auburn hair was always in his line of sight. He was always close by on her way to her dressing room, and he stood outside leaning against the wall staring into the night as she walked out to the carriages.

He did not have to think about looking after her. He simply did.

The flame that shot from the top of his skull down to his toes was the only tell-tale sign that reminded him unavoidably of that eleventh finger.

He felt that flame now as he spotted her huddling with Stone and Royce in back of the chorus.

Her face was a white mask of confused ecstasy.

_She must be mad. She must._

_But the voice in the dressing room…._

_So she’s lying. There’s another man in her life._

_But the look on her face, in her eyes…._

He swallowed down the rush of crazed concern and stood, giving the ropes another quick tug. Baelish’s visit earlier today made more sense now that he’d spoken with Tyrion. The Hound was surprised when Baelish came by, the owner revealing himself backstage a rare occurrence. He’d stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around with a pleasant look on his face, in a bullshit attempt to come across nonchalant. Smiling and keeping his voice nice and honeyed, he told Sandor that there’d been some minor word of vandals around the place, so would he be so good as to double check the rigging and the props to make sure all is well before the curtain rises?

Sandor saw something in Baelish’s gray-green eyes that he’d always suspected lurked within the impresario but never seen so clearly: sour desperation.

Now Sandor knew why.

The emotions that letter stirred in Sandor were wry irritation accompanied by a stifled anxiety. Perhaps it _was_ just a prankster. The opera house usually got a couple letters per season from some crazed idiot claiming to be the opera ghost but was obviously a forger.

_Then again, the Phantom himself is nothing more than a forgery. Baelish, Varys, or someone. Me, even. I’ve done things that were later blamed on the Phantom, like smuggling goods away for Baelish and carrying the ghost’s so-called salary to Box Five._

Yet the murders, the supposed accidents whenever anyone talked too much about the opera ghost, spelled more than a mere conspiracy between managers.

Sandor fought down the images of Baelish’s uncharacteristic concern, the little bird’s unworldly expression, Tyrion’s request, the murders. If he dwelled too much on all this he was liable to crack, roaring and grabbing the girl and – who knows what.

He backed into the shadows, hushing dancers and stagehands around him. The curtain rose.

As the chorus sang in noisome harmony, the anxiety Sandor had tried stamping down roiled to the surface. Now that everything was in motion, everything so far gone smoothly, Sandor could taste the tension humming in the air.

He gazed out at the audience. They sat indifferent to any danger, some whispering amongst themselves about Cersei’s return and about Sansa’s reduced role. 

Cersei stepped to the center and sang. _“Ah! To think the great fool Florian should visit our sleepy little village! What delights shall he reveal to us?”_

Sandor could imagine the suppressed disappointment the audience felt at her conventional and lackluster notes compared to the youthful enthusiasm Sansa brought to the role.

Sandor studied Cersei dispassionately. Although she still looked mostly the same, she was a changed woman. Grief had hardened her features even more, and the increased drink and food were telling in the bleary bloat to her pale face.

She was still a handsome woman, but now Sandor felt Sansa was more beautiful.

Tyrion Lannister was one of the first to note the growing loveliness of Sansa’s features. “There’s a sort of haunted, vulnerable look to her now that makes her an absolute dish to look at, I must say,” Sandor overheard him tell Varys in the wings one night. 

He’d wanted nothing more than to smash the imp’s nose into his face as he gazed at the girl with ill-concealed lust.

It was disgusting to say that of her in her evident distress. But shit, it was disgusting on his own part to compare a grieving mother’s looks to a frightened girl’s.

Once again, Sandor inwardly winced at his hypocrisy but shrugged it off. He was no saint. He just observed, the opera’s loyal fucking hound.

The sisters approached Jonquil, cooing about her. Sansa sang her first solo lines.

Westeros, having learned to love her, applauded these few notes.

That was when Sandor saw the ferocious hate of the lioness enter Cersei’s emerald eyes.

Sandor’s muscles tightened in apprehension for Sansa.

Cersei soon proved his worry right. 

She took every opportunity in this first act to block Sansa from view, to sing so loudly and shrilly that she drowned her out. Once in the bathing scene Cersei even tried to throw off Sansa’s balance by brushing past her violently.

Sandor noticed that Sansa accepted this with surprising passivity. A consummate professional, Sansa played the giddy sister with nary a look or act that could be construed as out of character.

Sometimes, though, Sandor thought he spied her eyes flickering upward, as if waiting for a sign.

Outside of Cersei’s growing animosity toward Sansa, nothing else seemed amiss. Once or twice Sandor climbed the rafters and poked his head around the corners.

Nothing.

He’d just settled back into his position in the left wing when Cersei took the stage alone for her fist big solo: The Jewelry Song.

 

Tyrion calmed down by degrees. The temperature was a bit stifling, ladies batting their fans vehemently, succeeding only in moving the warm air around. He sat bored in his box seated next to Baelish, Varys behind them. Tyrion leaned his elbow tiredly on the box’s banister, head in hand. He certainly didn’t look the part of the attentive brother supporting his grieving sister’s return to the stage, but Tyrion knew both he and that sister were beyond that particular charade.

Against his will, his eyes crawled to the box beside theirs.

Box Five was popularly known as the Ghost’s seat. Per tradition, Baelish usually did not sell it; however, Tyrion had at last talked him round the past couple months. Waste of good money to keep the seat unoccupied.

Still, Tyrion would not lie to himself that tonight he was glad Baelish had insisted on keeping Box Five empty.

Even if it was just a prankster, and even though Tyrion was far too rational to believe in any actual specter, you could never be too careful –

\--Good gods, could Cersei be more lifeless?

She sang her lines now directly to the audience as if she were at some elegant drawing room recital rather than playing a part. There was no attempt at character building, at acting. When Tyrion recalled the breadth of spirit and excitement the Stark girl brought to the role, he wanted to sink even lower into his seat in second-hand embarrassment.

He’d barely spoken to Cersei alone since Joffrey’s death and her return. She’d holed herself up in her mansion with the children, never leaving. Whenever Tyrion tried to pay his respects, he was informed the mistress was not receiving and he had nothing else to do but visit the children and try to cheer them up a tad. Poor Tommen walked around now like a pale dazed ghost of a child, and Myrcella was chomping at the bit to go abroad to boarding school – anything to escape the suffocating grief encasing their mother and their home.

Cersei’s sudden return had thrown him off guard just as much as it had Sansa. His older sister arrived that day in their office with an odd air of serenity, offset by the uneasy dangerous light in her eyes. She insisted they send a telegram right away to Sansa, and to not move a muscle until she appeared. “We shall wait,” she announced in a perfectly peaceful and queenly tone.

The stiff, awkward pose Sansa found them in was one they’d maintained since sending the wire.

Even though Tyrion suspected all along that Joffrey’s death would affect his sister’s hold on reality, he’d no idea how deep her crazed bitterness ran until she accused Sansa. That he hadn’t expected.

He shivered, looking at his patrician sister in her incongruous medieval country girl get-up. Her face was composed and disinterested as she sang, but oh, how those eyes blazed mercilessly.

The light flickered.

Tyrion looked around. Had it really flickered, or in his boredom had he just nodded off for a brief second?

He spied a few heads turning to their companions, leaning in to whisper questioningly. One or two turned their eyes upward to glance at the chandelier hanging above. 

Although Tyrion’s heart rate skyrocketed, he forced himself to focus on the stage. He’d hand this to Cersei, she’d given no indication she’d noticed –

Another flash of darkness.

Tyrion’s heart thudded in his ears as he heard creaking before the lights came back on.

Cersei’s voice wavered and the professional mask slipped just a bit. All eyes were on the chandelier now.

This chandelier was comprised of crystal glass, supported by gilded brass and weighing a little over eight tons. It glowed a beautiful golden-red when lit, with specks of glittering silver.

They used the same model as the one Gregor Clegane destroyed all those years ago. The style was classic yet timeless.

Right now the crystals jangled together as the giant mass swayed, back and forth. The flames waved like bright scarves blowing in the wind.

The light flickered, on and off, on and off. Alarmed murmuring floated up from the crowd. Several people were inching away toward the aisles.

Tyrion looked to Baelish. Littlefinger was halfway out of his seat, face paralyzed and sharp as he stared at the mobile light fixture.

Tyrion glanced behind him.

Varys was gone.

The youngest Lannister could not help the faint spike of pride and pity in his heart as Cersei rallied her defenses and sang again. Her hand was tight around Jonquil’s looking glass. Her voice was soft, unsure, her face plainly showing her lost anxiety, but still she soldiered on.

All at once an uncanny tenor sang seemingly from the chandelier itself, overpowering Cersei. As he sang Jonquil’s words, the voice took on a nasty, mocking edge. Through the mass of shifting crystals, Tyrion thought he could just make out a dark silhouette standing on the ceiling edge next to the chandelier’s chain.

Cersei’s voice faded as the tenor’s raised higher and higher. The audience was as paralyzed as Baelish now.

The voice called out in a rich, theatrical, ominous accent:

_**“Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!”** _

Tyrion was on his feet on top of his seat, crying, “Don’t -- !”

The small clink of the chain detaching was all that could be heard until the chandelier landed on the seats below.

 

Had the chandelier fallen months prior, Sandor would not have hesitated to rally the crew, to investigate, to organize and direct. His training and experience would lead him to take immediate action. 

Now he did indeed snap into action, but his motives were vastly different and more urgent than they ever were before.

_Little bird. Little bird little bird little bird Sansa._

She of course was safe, he told himself as he pushed through the crowd of flabbergasted cast members backstage. The chandelier fell on the audience, and she was just behind the curtain with her fellow sisters, prepared to call offstage for Jonquil after her solo.

And yet the words of the Phantom’s note, and that damnable protectiveness that overwhelmed him where she was concerned, set his heart racing as he struggled to near the area she should be watching from.

He registered the cries from the audience and the hubbub of the company. As he went he barked orders – “You, get out of the way! Trant, see to Lord Baelish, and find out what he needs! Blount, dammit, sober up and get the ballet girls away from the stage!” – Until he spied Stone and Royce gawking frozen in their spot behind the curtain.

He snapped at a few shrieking dancers and then pushed through to the two singers. “The girl? Where is she?”

Mya blinked once or twice. “Girl? You mean Sansa?”

Sandor leaned closer, struggling to hear through the chaos around them. “Aye, Sansa! Sansa Stark! Where is she?”

“The moment the chandelier crashed, she headed off like a shot that way.” Myranda pointed where, face numb. “She looked so strange….”

She pointed in the direction of the dressing room. The dressing room: down the corridor, isolated….

Without a word more, Sandor turned and battled his way through the crowd.

One small dark-haired figure took after him.

“Wait! Where are you going? Wait!” Gendry reached out for Arya but was blocked by several large stagehands bustling by. He lost sight of her.

 

Sandor at last pushed past the remaining gawkers, and found himself near the corridor.

His sense of foreboding was at such a fever pitch he barely breathed.

He reached the corridor and then he heard it.

That tenor voice again. The one he heard speak to Sansa, and the one he heard condemn the audience from above the chandelier. It was singing now, from far down the hall, from the dressing room. He couldn’t hear the words.

Growling, Sandor increased his pace, running like a madman.

By the time he reached the door the singing had faded.

As he fumbled for his key with one hand, he beat on the door with the other. “Sansa! Open the door! _Sansa_!” His voice rasped like the roar of some primitive beast’s.

At last the key was in the lock. He burst into the room.

There was a strange breeze. The light still dimly burnt in the lamp. 

Some instinct made him move past the partition to the wall-mounted mirror.

There was no Sansa.

He touched the glass.

Sandor’s breath returned to him in jagged huffs. 

No Sansa.

He turned at the sound of footsteps halting in the open doorway. He returned to the dressing room’s entrance.

Arya stood there, panting, cap gone and short hair mussed.

She stared with razor-like intensity at the man before her.

Simultaneously they asked, “Where is she?”

They answered each other only with searing stares. They were helpless and frantic. Each recognized the look of animal frenzy in the other’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes according to plan, the Phantom’s big reveal should be next chapter! I request you keep any suspicions to yourself for now, since even though I have a feeling I might have made the identity kind of obvious, I like the pretense of surprise, heh! 
> 
> Thanks so much to tumblr user rjdaae for clueing me in on how big the Paris Garnier’s chandelier was. I made it a little bigger here, because DRAMA! *throws glitter in your face* And hey, at least I didn’t exaggerate as much as Gaston Leroux did in the novel – he claimed the chandelier was 200,000 kilos, which is apparently _30 times_ the size of the original! My, my.


	17. Chapter 17

Sansa was in darkness. She was cold. There was one large rectangle of light, a sort of window that let her see into her dressing room.

As she watched in an odd detached way as Sandor touched the glass, as he left to confer with Arya, reality slowly returned to her.

She remembered as if coming to from anesthesia a large crash of some sort as she sat with Mya and Myranda backstage. There were cries…screams….but all that penetrated the cloud in her mind was the need to return to the dressing room. He would be waiting for her. 

Somehow she made her way through running bodies and frantic faces that didn’t truly register.

She somehow turned the key in the lock. She somehow walked to the spot he had commanded.

His voice came to her, never so sweet before.

She smiled as she recognized the words. It was an ancient song, from a hymn of the Old Gods that Nan had once presented to Sansa.

_“Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!”_

Warm thankfulness filled her body. She beamed through the ecstatic tears pouring down her face. He _was_ an Angel. No trickery, no deceit. He was an Angel, a true Angel….

_“Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!”_

The glass shifted and turned into a dozen silver ocean waves.

_“Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!”_

Head held high and sureness in her heart, Sansa knew what to do.

She walked toward the glass.

_“Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!”_

A burst of white-silver light and she was through.

Darkness. Everywhere darkness.

Except for that window into her dressing room....

But it was not a window.

The cloud was clearing slowly from her mind….

No. A mirror.

Her dressing room mirror.

She was… _behind the mirror._

The euphoria vanished and Sansa was alone somewhere dark and cold. Sandor had left. 

She heard water dripping.

She was behind the mirror. The mirror was one-way glass. 

_Trickery, deceit…._

“Angel…?” Her voice was so weak. Louder now: _“Angel?”_

A hand on her shoulder.

Unable to scream, she turned around.

In the light from the dressing room and the lantern he held, she saw a tall man dressed all in black: long black fedora, black cape, black gloves –

Black mask that covered his face.

She could not see his eyes – only a vague sparkle within the eye holes of his mask.

She backed into something hard. Turning, she saw through the lantern light that it was a gray brick wall. She was in some sort of narrow hallway, coated in cobwebs.

Sansa felt like she’d been hovering on a cliff’s edge in a dream, and only now had she plummeted off, awakening.

“Who are you?” She asked in a voice so harsh it sounded alien to her.

The figure lifted his gloved hand as if to caress her cheek, but stopped just a bare inch from her skin, as if she were made of porcelain. A great sigh like wind escaped him. His breath was so cold.

Voice little more than a wavering whisper now, she asked, “Where is the Angel?”

The masked head tilted. The spark from those unseen irises spun around and around.

At last he spoke. “I am your Angel, Sansa. Your teacher, your devotee.”

She had indeed fallen off the cliff and landed fatally on the rocks below.

There was no mistaking that voice. The Angel and the masked man shroud in darkness were one and the same.

A lupine flash of courage heated her cheeks as she rounded on him. “You? You…where are we? Take me back at once! You tricked me! You lied! I” –

All at once he sang.

His posture was so gentle, so non-threatening. His voice…it wrapped around her like a warm blanket. He sang words in a rare form of Valyrian she did not understand, but were somehow familiar and dear to her.

She felt her eyes close half-way, sleepy.

So gently she barely felt it, he took her hand in his. His posture was the very definition of submissive respect. He held her hand but extended his arm so that she was left a great deal of personal space. Eyes never leaving her, he backed away, leading her.

The lamplight revealed spiraled steps, leading down into the darkness, twisting into the unknown.

She hesitated at the top. His voice grew sweeter, and tears stung her eyes as she saw her father in the words he sang, her mother, her brothers. Winterfell. Lady.

She let him lead her down.

Time stopped as they marched slowly down into the growing darkness, the lantern’s red light their only illumination. They could have walked down five levels or fifty for all that Sansa was aware.

Once they reached the bottom, she gasped. “Stranger!”

The fearsome black stallion whinnied happily at the sight of her. He nuzzled excitedly the hand she reached out to him.

The relief of seeing something she knew and loved was replaced by fresh worry, another jolt of reality. “What are you doing here?” She asked the horse softly, petting his neck.

She gasped again as her companion lifted her wordlessly into his arms then onto Stranger’s saddle.

She was too paralyzed to speak. He very delicately smoothed her gown and otherwise secured her on the usually temperamental horse’s back, who was surprisingly tame now.

Only with her and Sandor was he so meek.

_Sandor._

The masked man led her through a black hallway. The sound of dripping water increased. Sansa felt that if she were not in Heaven or Hell, she was in some land in-between, where children of the forest, Others, and dragons convened in the darkness.

She breathed very shallowly. 

Not a word was spoken between them, but still she saw the sparkle of his eyes focused solely on her, his hand on Stranger’s bridle.

All she heard was dripping and the staccato rhythm of Stranger’s hooves plodding through this cave-like labyrinth.

More life returned to her as the monotonous dripping faded and became a louder, steadier gurgle instead. The air was crisper, damper.

A misty light reached out to them, looking like blue flames against the brick walls. They passed through an arched opening. That is when Sansa saw the lake. 

She could not even find air to gasp. Here, underground, at the edge of a cobwebbed dungeon-like cellar, was a gray-black lake, stretching on as far as Sansa could see.

She’d always felt drawn to the water, crediting her Riverlands blood with her connection to it. One of the few athletic activities she enjoyed with her siblings was a dip in the warm springs near Winterfell. She remembered once visiting Riverrun and her grandfather, and taking a boat to the middle of the river nearby and then diving in and floating there, gazing into the sky and rocking in the waves – happy and carefree, a child.

What an odd juxtaposition to this still, leaden pool, clothed in this unnatural night.

He helped her off the horse. Her attention was next taken by a long elegant boat as black as everything else tied to a makeshift wharf along the bank. She spied a soft velvet cushion inside, and knew it was meant for her.

He was whispering in Stranger’s ear, then he lightly slapped the horse’s flank and Stranger trotted off, back down the hall.

Swept up by panic, Sansa reached out for her departing friend and was about to cry out for him when the man took her outstretched hand and hushed her, patting her hand like one would a child.

“Come.”

Sansa swallowed her tears hearing her Angel’s voice again from this strange figure.

He settled her into the boat.

The voyage was a long, quiet one. Sansa at first couldn’t take her eyes off him, her human Angel. 

But _was_ he human?

_The Opera Ghost._

She shuddered and turned away. That faint gurgling was the only sound; otherwise, the water was remarkably silent and still, save for the strong, steady strokes of this man – this _Phantom’s?_ – oar.

She could feel the sparkle of his eyes upon her. They never left her.

Her eyes adjusting to the blue light surrounding them, Sansa took in the long pillars reaching from below the waters to the high domed ceiling above them. To the sides Sansa thought she saw small windows with…crossbars? She couldn’t be sure.

Out of the dark mist Sansa suddenly saw light, real candlelight ahead of them. Shore was in sight. As they neared, Sansa could see that the long candles were held by statues carved out of what looked to her like dragon glass. They were of human form, but with dragon faces, wolf faces, faces of old Weirwood trees.

The statues stood guard in front of an immense portcullis, which looked as old and impenetrable as the Iron Throne. 

_What sort of macabre fairytale was she trapped in?_

Sansa turned at the movement behind her. The caped figure was raising his arm. All at once the gate lifted, and the boat floated through to the bank just feet beyond.

Sansa swayed in disbelief at what was before her as he secured the boat at the small dock. 

It was like watching a play, or an opera: there sprawled a drawing room set with no exterior, no outside wall.

The space was as large if not larger than Winterfell’s drawing room, but the wooden furniture was shinier, the rugs more plush. 

Like the portcullis, this odd home seemingly carved into the stone wall was Medieval in décor. Large lanterns were suspended from the arched ceiling. Hanging from the stone walls were old paintings of dragon battles, including a gigantic replica of Blaeke’s _The Great Red Dragon_ series. _The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun_ was placed in center. 

Swords that looked forged from ancient Valyrian steel and various artifacts from a time now gone also graced the wall. At the lair’s entrance stood two empty armored guards.

A large pipe organ took up most of the wall facing away from the portcullis.

In contrast to this Gothic nostalgia was the quaintly commonplace furniture and vases filled with plastic flowers, as if the designer felt the need to add a tacky air of hominess.

The man took her hand again and led her further into the room. “It is much warmer inside, near the sofa. This spot is built above a hot underground spring.”

These were the first words he had spoken to her since before crossing the lake. To hear that familiar ethereal voice say something so rudimentary would have made Sansa laugh were she not so frightened.

For as eccentric as the surroundings she found herself in was, Sansa felt at least more grounded here, more in touch with reality. 

With reality came the return of fear. She moved to confront the man once more, but was distracted studying his appearance. She could see him more clearly now. He was tall with a slender but muscular build. She could not make out much more. Although he’d shed his cape, he was dressed still from head to toe in black, save for the flash of red in the vest beneath his waistcoat. His skin was covered.

He kept his hat on, hiding his hair from view. She could see in the light a bit more of his eyes and thought them dark, but beyond that she could not judge the color.

He stood in the center of the room behind the sofa, hands folded respectfully in front of him. He watched her quietly and said nothing.

Irrational hysteria suddenly filled her entire being. Sansa turned from him and ran down the hallway she was near.

It was a short hallway that ended in a small room. This she entered, blindly, unaware almost of her own actions. She wasn’t even sure if she was trying to escape.

She peered into the darkness and halted. Her blood froze.

A coffin was all that was visible.

She shrieked.

She heard footsteps behind her. “That is my bed,” came the Angel’s voice.

_An Angel who sleeps in a coffin underground._

She felt queasy at her stupidity, her blind trusting faith all this time. Fighting her tears, she asked in a spiteful voice, “Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me you were an angel, when you are clearly a man…or…or a devil, or…the Phantom… _whatever_ you are?”

His eyeholes darkened and he drew in a light hissing breath. “If I am the Phantom, it is because man’s hatred has made me so.”

The frank sorrow of his words pricked her native compassion. When he reached out a hand to her, she did not take it, but followed him out without arguing. She still kept her distance.

Across from his room was another. He stopped in front of it, turning the knob. He did not enter, but merely held the door open with his head inclined in a solemn courtly bow.

Sansa realized this was her room.

_Her room, in this cellar underground._

Sansa stepped inside as tentative as a fawn.

Her eyes widened, childlike awe seizing her. “Beautiful,” she couldn’t help whisper.

The room was golden: gilded walls, vanity, and boat-shaped bed. Soft gold silken sheets and feather pillows ornamented this gigantic bed. A large golden canopy shaded it. Upon the chair next to her vanity was draped an elegant silken dressing gown, silver in contrast to the gold. Matching slippers were beside the chair.

She approached the bed and saw a painting hanging on the wall against it of a striking young woman. Sansa squinted her eyes, scanning the woman’s features. 

She was dressed in blue and silver. Her dark hair was in a rather old-fashioned style, some twenty years out of date, from what Sansa could judge. Her long narrow face was proud yet youthful.

The minute Sansa looked into her gray eyes, mischievous and fiery, she recognized her from a few hidden portraits in the attic of Winterfell….

_“Lyanna?”_

She whirled around, staring at the figure standing in the doorway. “Who are you?” She asked again.

“I was an ignorant fool when you first came to this opera house, Sansa,” he said after a long moment. “You see, I paid you no heed that first week. You looked so like a Tully, not a bit like her. Your manner, your ways, were of such ladylike grace that I did not see Lyanna in you.” _How theatrical his words are_ , Sansa thought through her haze of confusion. However, there was nothing ridiculous, either. “Now, your little sister, yes. When I see her I feel pain, knowing what a daughter of Lyanna’s would have been like. No, it was not until I heard you sing at your audition that I realized. That was when I knew that despite the appearances, you had her soul. A voice like Lyanna’s, like yours, can only come from the soul. I knew then Lyanna Stark and Sansa Stark were one and the same, and that you have returned to me. I have found her true spirit again.”

Sansa backed away once more. “What are you talking about?”

With slow strides he at last entered the room. He knelt gallantly. He lifted the hem of the show’s bathing gown she still wore and pressed it to his lips through his mask. He bowed his head. “I am no Angel, it is true, and while the world’s hatred has made me the Phantom, your love, Sansa….” He lifted his face to hers and there was reverence in his voice. “…Your love will make me Rhaegar again.”

So saying he stood and removed his hat. 

A long mane of silver-white hair fell in waves down his shoulders.

Targaryen hair. 

She thought she saw hints of dark indigo surrounding his pupils.

Her knees buckled.

He caught her, pressing her to him for a moment. He smelled of loam.

“What – what” –

Before she could say more he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently.

He bent near her as she shrank away from him, crying. He shook his head and spoke in a pleading voice. “Do not fear me, my love! It is all so very simple. I escaped death. My good friend and second Arthur Dayne was taken for me. No one knew he was there and they assumed…oh, my poor dear Arthur. Meanwhile, someone helped me make it here, all the way below…but never mind, my sweet. I will protect you, do not worry.”

He looked up and gestured to the roof above them, to the ground below. “Here no one can harm you, no lioness diva, no drunk stag, no murdering mountain or his lustful dog brother” –

“But” –

“ _Shhhhhhh_. No, not even your ignorant father can take you from me here.”

He hushed her again as she sat up and opened her mouth to rebuke him. He sang an old Northern lullaby, so ancient she did not recognize it.

He was moving his hand oddly in front of her face, as if grabbing something just inches from her skin, again and again.

At last the image blurred and her eyelids grew heavy. A snug warmth made her lie back down.

His voice in her ears, she drifted off to sleep.

Rhaegar watched her for several minutes. He watched her skin glow in the low candlelight. He watched her chest rise up and down. Great tenderness crushed him.

_So different from Lyanna, but her soul rests there, within that pretty form._

He stood and gazed at Lyanna’s wild winter face in its portrait. “I have you back, my love. I have your voice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-daaaaah! 
> 
> So how many of you guessed it? How many of you thought someone else?
> 
> Anyway, if you think the relationship between him and Lyanna is a bit too romanticized here, and the comparison between her and Sansa too stretched...just you wait. Just you wait.
> 
> Although throughout I've been influenced mostly by Gaston Leroux's original novel (along with bits and pieces of the 1989 Robert Englund film and even the 1983 Maximilian Schell-Jane Seymour film* neither of which are works of art but I love them), I have to say I borrowed a lot of detail from the 1925 film here. The scene where Lon Chaney's Phantom takes Mary Philbin's Christine below is one of the most memorable scenes ever, in my opinion. 
> 
> I also took a lot of inspiration from the musical, too, in the description of the portcullis.
> 
> *Edited to add that I just remembered the Phantom's name is Sandor in that version! Spooky.


	18. Chapter 18

Sansa ran through a misty thicket with Lady. The fog was heavy and growing heavier. There was a ghostly, beautiful singing behind them. In spite of the song’s beauty, Sansa was afraid, and so was Lady. They were running away, toward a large figure at the end of the thicket, sitting all in darkness. The figure had huge hulking shoulders, and she could tell, just tell by the posture that the figure was powerful but sad, so very sad. She also knew that as intimidating and frightening as that figure was, there was safety with him; behind her only terror.

Lady’s ears pricked up once she saw the figure at the end more clearly. Soon she outdistanced her mistress.

Sansa reached out, frantic as Lady disappeared ahead. “Lady!” She cried. “Lady! Come back! Don’t leave me!” She sounded like a scared child.

The singing gained on her, the voice breathing cool air down her neck. The shadow of large hands encompassed her. Oddly enough, the voice itself was gone, replaced by harsh music, like from a pipe organ….

Her eyes flew open. She was in the boat-shaped bed. The canopy shaded her. The pipe organ music was not in her dream, but was blaring now outside her door.

She sat up and looked around her. She glanced at the ornate little clock situated on the nightstand. She’d slept almost ten hours.

She twisted around and gazed again at the painting behind her. She shuddered as she took in Lyanna’s visage.

Everything came back to her in a flash.

A crash, chaos, a mirror, a twisted staircase, dark catacombs, Stranger, a lake, a boat.

A man.

Her stomach churned.

She compared the gilded beauty of the room she was in to the strident, dramatic music she heard outside.

Angel or devil, which was Rhaegar Targaryen?

_Rhaegar Targaryen._

Very faintly, everything she’d ever heard about the man beat in her head as she slung her legs onto the floor. Fire seemed to follow him wherever he went. He was born as one of his family's homes burnt to the ground, the newborn and his parents just barely escaping with their lives. The boy soon proved to be brilliant, a musical prodigy. By the time he was eleven he claimed he had composed seven operas, twelve symphonies. Father a bit mad; his obsession with keeping the Targaryen bloodline pure led him to marry his own first cousin. Although Targaryens often married their third or fourth cousins, his union with Rhaella was considered scandalous.

However, he got what he wanted. His sons and daughter were born with the traditional Targaryen looks: silver-white hair, purple eyes, and great physical beauty (Rhaella died bringing the daughter into the world, some years after the scandal. Not much was known about the two youngest Targaryen children, secluded as they were in the Targaryen home, their father dying not long after their mother from a brain hemorrhage). 

Aerys tried to disown his eldest son when Rhaegar moved his family out of the Targaryen mansion so he could teach singing at the opera and sell his music.

 _Rhaegar Targaryen._ Aloof, bookish. A dutiful husband and father – until he met Lyanna.

Sansa shivered once again as she thought of her aunt. Did she truly love him, or did he pressure his pupil into the affair? Stories varied wildly. The Baratheon camp claimed the latter, while popular opinion whispered the former.

Most of all, Sansa remembered a picture she had seen of him once, in some sheet music he had written. She had gotten ahold of it in the attic, the music mixed in with the rest of Lyanna’s possessions.

He was startlingly handsome. She couldn’t make out his precise coloring, because of course the photograph was in black and white. But the long white mane she saw yesterday matched the one she’d seen in the picture….

She stood, looking around this her room. Blushing at the scant outfit she had on, she hurriedly wrapped herself in the dressing gown. 

It fit her perfectly, and the cool silk felt wonderful against her skin.

The slippers fit her just as well, and she noticed a whole row of shoes in varying shades and styles near the bed. She walked to the closet. Dresses in her favorite colors were lined neatly inside.

Next she turned to the vanity. She picked up the hand mirror. Sansa's name was engraved on the back.

Beside the hand mirror she noticed a note, written in beautiful calligraphy.

_My dearest Sansa –_

_You are my inspiration, my joy. Until now, I have lived in the darkest despair. Since hearing your voice, hope has risen in me and I glimpse happiness again. I am your slave._

_You are in no peril, but you must never touch my mask. You will be free as long as your love for the spirit of Rhaegar overcomes your fear._

_ Rhaegar _

Sansa was not yet nineteen. Sheltered as she’d been all her life within the walls of Winterfell Manor, what she knew of love and romance lived on the written page. Dashing counts, dark castles, thunderous skies and escapes through labyrinthine tunnels were what she thought of when she thought of love.

Sandor had opened new doors for her, taught her that polished manners and windswept confessions were not all there was to love.

But Sandor was not here. He was angry with her. He looked down on her for her fantasies and called them illusions.

She stared at the florid note in her hands.

She looked again at the palatial room she was in – underground, in the gothic catacombs of the King’s Landing Opera House.

And her youth and romanticism began to carry her away.

Whether she acknowledged it or not, the core of her being, her soul would always belong to Sandor, as his did to her.

Yet she was able to almost forget this now. She thought not of Sandor’s scarred face, frank and rough, but of the faded handsome one belonging to Rhaegar Targaryen, hidden in Winterfell’s attic.

He’d taught her, cared for her from afar. He carried her away to an underground palace as she was clothed in a diaphanous gown. He confessed his love, his devotion, in language she’d only ever read of in her books.

He played music just outside this door.

Questions still remained, surely: how responsible was he for the atrocities above? The murders? Did he really think she was Lyanna incarnate, and was it _she_ he loved, not Sansa? 

However, these questions were very vague to her now; what mattered to the stunned singer was in front of her in the present.

What was in front of her was the most beautiful room she’d ever been in, built just for her by a handsome man with a voice so beautiful she wept with ecstasy to hear it.

She forgot the questions, the dream, the terror, and she felt infatuation take their place.

She’d yearned her whole life for a romance unlike anything she witnessed in Winterfell; she longed for what was in the pages of her novels. Here she had that chance, and who was she to reject it?

She shoved out everything else, Lyanna, Hollard, Joffrey, her parents – even – she swallowed, her eyes suddenly stinging – even Sandor. 

Why couldn’t she take a chance with her brilliant tutor, after all he’d done for her?

She glanced at the note again. _You are in no peril, but you must never touch my mask._

Suddenly a fresh doubt seized her.

That mask. Why did he wear it? Oh, she could understand up above; on the off-chance someone saw him, he wouldn’t want identification. Better that they should spread the false rumor the Phantom was a disfigured monster instead of the handsome man he was.

But if that were the case, why would he need it now? He’d already revealed his identity to her. He’d shown her his hair.

A harsh thought thudded in her heart.

Hair can be dyed, or a wig used. She thought she saw purple in his eyes, but had she really? Had she only seen what she’d wanted to see?

Was he _really_ Rhaegar Targaryen?

Why else would he insist on keeping his face hidden?

Her new infatuation warred with her new misgiving.

The key changed in the music he was playing; now it was more lyrical, more edged with romance.

The note slid from her fingers. 

She hurried to her vanity. She cringed when she saw her face. The makeup she’d worn in the show was all smeared now, big black blotches spreading from her eyes down her cheeks and up to her forehead. Her lips were edged in smudged red.

She spied what looked to be a small washroom and hurried inside, after grabbing a gown from the closet.

She emerged minutes later greatly refreshed. She'd brushed her hair with a pearl-handled hairbrush (again with her name engraved) until her locks fell thickly and silkily down her shoulders. She’d chosen a gown of the palest blue. All makeup was gone from her face, and while her complexion still looked too pasty for her liking after last night’s ordeal, at least she didn’t resemble some drunk clown anymore.

She hesitated before opening the bedroom door. He was still playing his pipe organ. The music was so sweeping now that somehow it gave her courage, brought back in a flood her feelings of romance.

She left her room and entered that odd drawing room.

He sat with his back to her at the organ, still playing. The music hurt her ears, but she was too transfixed staring at his back to pay that much mind.

_How muscular that back is!_

She shut her eyes to the nagging voice suddenly telling her that Sandor’s was more muscular, broader –

No, he hated her now. _Don’t think about him._

The Phantom’s hair was loose, hanging almost all the way down his back.

She lost herself gazing at the silver and white intertwined there. What dye could replicate such a color? What wig could look so natural yet inhuman all at once? He _must_ be Rhaegar.

Just as she gratefully settled on this conviction, he stopped playing and turned around. He stood and bowed. “You are awake! I hope I did not disturb you. I have lived in solitude so long that I have forgotten I must adjust to another person in my home.”

She was terribly moved by his words. His voice was rich with suppressed sorrow.

Finding her own voice with some difficulty, she said quietly, “You’ve forgotten nothing. I have every amenity in the world.”

She wished she could see his expression, but the black mask precluded it. He merely bowed again, graciously.

She gasped as something velvety yet coarse brushed against her skirt.

“Oh, hello,” she said in relief and some surprise as she recognized the culprit. An ugly old black cat with a torn ear meowed sulkily at her. She’d seen this ragged tom cat countless times about the theater, usually down around the stables. One of Arya’s jobs was to chase him off, as he tended to spook the horses. 

“Is he yours?” She asked Rhaegar.

His eyes followed out the cat as it nimbly escaped through the bars of the portcullis in the distance. “That is Balerion. He belonged to…he belonged to someone else.”

 _Balerion._ That sounded familiar. Bran had mentioned the name from one of his books, maybe. Something in connection with the extinct dragons? One of the old Targaryen dragon riders? Or one of the actual dragons?

What truly struck Sansa was how depressed Rhaegar’s voice was as he named the cat. He sighed again and he stared downward. His fists were lightly clenched.

Sansa was suddenly very uncomfortable, but she found herself more drawn than ever to this tragic figure. 

Clearing her throat, she said in hopes of taking his mind off whatever weighed on his soul, “What were you playing? I didn’t recognize it.”

“It was one of my own compositions,” he said, glancing at the music.

Sansa took courage and approached, studying the sheets on the organ’s music rack.

There was a title and a subtitle: _The Prince That Was Promised, Or: Azor Ahai Reborn._

She frowned, confused. “Azor Ahai….” She whispered, wondering if she was even pronouncing the strange words correctly.

He was quite close to her, his breath cold on her neck. “I have pondered many years over which prophecy is correct: the prophecy of the prince, or the prophecy of the fire god, R’hllor. Or are they one and the same?”

Sansa turned to him. Again, she couldn’t quite make out his eyes, but she could tell they were on her, studying her. Watchful. Waiting. As if expecting her to answer him.

“I don’t understand,” was all she could say.

He stared now at the sheet music, his voice faraway. “Since that terrible night, I have become obsessed with prophecy. Below this level is my library. It is immense. I have comprised it of my own collection before the Scandal’s events imprisoned me here, and from other sources. Within the pages, I found it: a prophecy so old it cannot properly be dated back. It tells of a promised leader, a savior. He will save the world from darkness once a terrible winter comes. A bleeding star will herald his return….

“I sought out ancient books from Asshai. They spoke of the great red god, R’hllor – lord of light, lord of fire. Enemy to ice and darkness. He has but one true champion: Azor Ahai, who forged the sword Lightbringer and saved the world, millennia ago. The ancient scripture says he will return to save us…once again, from a terrible winter.”

He stared at Sansa with penetrating intensity. “Can you imagine? Two prophecies, saying the same thing, from different cultures? How can that be sheer coincidence? These ancient prophets, they must have known something. Something true. And after the fire, I began thinking….

“Lightbringer was forged in fire, the fire of his beloved’s breast. Your aunt, Sansa…she died in fire. The bleeding star….a chandelier is like a star, isn’t it? And did it not land that day in blood, blood from its own crash as the flames destroyed everything I held dear? But the prince… _where is the prince?”_

Sansa couldn’t speak.

He took her hand. He spoke in a low voice. “Your aunt was with child when she died, Sansa. Did you know that?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head wordlessly.

He seemed to speak now mostly to himself. “I couldn’t understand it…there was the fire of R’hllor, of Lightbringer…there was the bleeding star…clearly our child was meant to be the prince! His absence drove me mad all these years!”

His eyes on Sansa again. “Then I heard your voice, Sansa. And it all became so clear.”

Her heart quailed. “What do you mean?”

“Your aunt’s voice was like none other I’d ever heard, and I fell in love with it. What I realize now was that the voice was not Lyanna’s, not yours…it was _Lightbringer, there in the voice!_ So of course Lyanna was Nissa Nissa…but no sword was meant to pierce her breast, for she held the sword within her. The voice, the sword, was to be a baby. The prince that was promised. Yet Lyanna died before the baby was two months old inside her! How was the baby to be born?”

He brought his hand up to Sansa’s face, lightly touching her hair. “ _You_ , Sansa.”

She felt struck by lightning. “Me?”

He nodded, and his voice was thick with tenderness. “Lyanna’s death was needed to satisfy R’hllor. She was the foretold sacrifice to the red god. But you, your fate is safer. You are the giver of life to the world’s champion. You are the queen to carry the prince that was promised to term.”

He grasped her hands to his chest. _“Your child and mine will be Azor Ahai reborn.”_

Sansa wrenched her hands away.

Mad. Mad. He was a madman, a dangerous deranged lunatic. Her heart beat loudly in her ears and she coiled away from him.

He was so lost in the fog of fiery dreams in his head that he didn’t notice her repulsion or her fear. His eyes turned to the heavens, and then back to his music. “…And this, this is the song of ice and fire that will help bring him into the world.”

He sat at the bench. “Listen, Sansa.”

He played from the beginning.

Sansa flinched at first. The cacophony was more like an extended wail of horror than music.

Then, little by little, something happened.

Beauty emerged.

Not the beauty of angels, of the heavens. The beauty of ice and fire indeed, of every emotion, grand and terrible.

Feelings of such depth Sansa had never heard expressed through music before.

She was intoxicated all over again.

This handsome figure, trapped in a mask. Unknowable; saintly, almost. He could not be some mad fraud, this much she knew. If there was madness within him, it was of a divine nature.

Perhaps with enough care and kindness, he could be brought back to sanity. He just needed to know she accepted him. She needed to jar him from his fantasies.

How?

_The mask…._

“Sing, Sansa!” He stared at her so devotedly, she could tell.

_But only if she could see his face reflect that devotion…._

“Sing!” 

She obeyed. 

She stood behind him and sang the lyrics she saw in the sheet music. The words were in that ancient High Valyrian she didn’t understand. However, she did not need to know the meaning of the words; the music itself said more than words ever could.

The music crescendoed into a craze of courage. She felt like her blood was on fire. Her nerves turned to steel.

Such courage made his mask look shameful in comparison.

Her hands twitched.

_If he sees that I can look into his face and accept Rhaegar Targaryen, that will save him. It will erase the last barrier between us._

Her hands brushed against his collar but sprung back as he leaned into her touch, mistaking the gesture for a caress.

Her voice sharpened.

The music was under her skin, urging her, urging her. Don’t be afraid, confront him, save him, _save him._

_She saw Lady running through the mist…._

She tore the mask from his face.

Horror.

The music stopped.

His wail of outrage and grief was more harrowing than the opening notes of his opera.

Sansa heard herself scream, but she was too terrified to truly feel anything at first.

The face she saw was beyond a ruin. The fire had ravaged his face so much it resembled a stripped skull more than anything flesh and blood. His nose was gone, leaving in its place only two gaping holes. His lips were thin blackened lines, the teeth forever in a grimacing leer. The burns ended at the scalp, his hair untouched.

He was a true death’s head.

The eyes were indeed Targaryen purple, shaded by a mockery of torn eyelids. The incongruous beauty of his eyes and hair in contrast to his ruined flesh made him look even ghastlier.

Speechless, she slid down the wall by the pipe organ.

He loomed over her, and he was growling like some half demon, half beast. He gnashed his teeth. His beautiful eyes blazed at her with frustrated passion. 

He was suddenly crouching on his knees before her like a monkey, and his gloved hands twisted painfully in her hair. “Look! You wanted to see? See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul, on my accursed ugliness!”

His words were again theatrical, and again there was nothing ridiculous there. Instead they were only deeply tragic and haunting.

His laughter was high and he hopped on his crouched legs, a demon monkey indeed.

Sansa felt hot tears scald her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

“Shut up!” He hissed, pointing a condemning finger at her. “Mad Sansa, who wanted to see my face! What, you think this is another mask? A mask behind the mask? Ha! Go ahead, see if it is! Go on! Try to rip this one away!”

“Oh, please, don’t” –

He grabbed her hands and thrust them into his face.

In spite of herself she shuddered as her nails made contact with that dry, flaking, wrecked skin. “Forgive me….”

He stood, laughing drunkenly. “What do you know of forgiveness? You cry now. For me or for yourself?”

“For you! I'm so sorry!”

 _“Sorry?”_ He spat. “You don’t know sorrow.” He suddenly cowered as if in pain. He massaged his chest. “The close air down here, it makes me ill. Chest pains plague me. And you talk of forgiveness, of pity! Where was Baratheon’s pity when he challenged me? Where was the Mountain’s pity for me, or for Lyanna, that day he ruined our lives? They don’t tell it like it happened. _He_ , my faithful servant, he makes sure of that. The stage was the only space large enough to duel. When the fire spread, it separated Gregor and me on one side, near backstage, and the rest on the other, near the seats. 

“The Mountain…he was mad if ever there was a madman. He tore off the leg of a table backstage and dipped it into the fire, turning it into a blazing torch. He pursued me. I’d lost my gun, you see, in the chaos. I ran for the cellars…he followed…as we neared the lake he cornered me. He thrust the torch right into my face, and I felt my skin melting away as he laughed, _he laughed._ I do not know what happened next. I must have found the lake and doused myself, too late to save my features, of course. I was fished out by….”

He trailed off, cradling his disfigured head. He muttered incoherently, then found the thread of his tale again.

“…I was taken here. I made a home. A miserable, awful, terrible home that is killing me. For over twenty years I have dwelled here, overseeing my domain when I go above in secret. Alone. So alone, Sansa. All that’s kept me going is solving the riddle of the prophecies. They lent meaning to the Scandal, to the loss of everything I loved, to my face. But what of the prince, the _prince_? With you, I solve that riddle. With you I can lead a normal life, with a wife I can live with and take out at night when no one is around to judge us. We can raise our little savior in solitude.”

He spoke in a sing-song child’s voice, fiddling absently with the bottom thread of her skirt.

Sansa stared at the shattered illusion before her. Wrong, wrong, she was always wrong about everything. 

She did pity him, she pitied him truly. Yet how could she save such a man? How could anyone save him? He was beyond reason. Perhaps…perhaps if he’d been honest and forthright from the beginning, hadn’t hidden his face….

But he had. And he reacted with such terrifying madness. All at once she remembered the murders. As terrible as the tragedy which robbed him of everything was, he could have retained his humanity; instead, he gave into violence. 

How could she ever love such a man as that? How could she fix him?

No one can fix anyone.

She remembered now a little boy. A little boy who was also pressed into fire by Gregor Clegane, much younger than the man here, who also felt his features melt away and was powerless to stop it.

The little boy became a broken, miserable man, but…sane. Honest. He was gruff and rude, but he protected her. He was angry when she turned away from him, but he took her at her word and left her alone. He did not force his attentions on her. He looked after her, but from a distance.

She was the worst wretch in the world. Here she’s been concocting fantasies about Rhaegar Targaryen, who lived in a twisted fantasy and killed those who did not fit into it, and she’d turned away Sandor….

The true man of her dreams.

And so she made a fatal mistake. “Sandor….” She said weakly.

He gave another sharp animal cry. He had her by the hair again, screaming into her face. “ _Do not say that name!_ I only allowed Gregor Clegane’s brother to remain under this roof because I knew, I knew when I saw him that the Mountain was responsible for his burns as well as mine! I felt a strange kinship with the brutish Hound. When I saw you lavish your affection on him, it killed me, pierced me somewhere vital, but I hoped it was a prelude of what was to come for you and me. I ended your dalliance, hoping he’d fade from your heart. Now you say his name, you vile girl!”

She thought of the strangled bodies and her heart was in her throat at the thought of him and Sandor – “No, no! You misunderstand me! What happened to you, it only reminded me of him! That’s all!” 

“Liar!” He hissed. “It matters not, however. You can never leave. A woman who has seen me as you have, she belongs to me forever.” His eyes brightened with a revelation. He straightened. “Perhaps it is _I_ who am Azor Ahai Reborn! And perhaps you, my dear,” He pointed at her and snickered darkly. “Perhaps you are my Nissa Nissa. Shall I take one of the swords on the wall and set it ablaze, then plunge it into your heart? Shall I fulfill the prophecy that way, my good woman?”

Nausea swept her. “No,” she whispered.

He was imperious and defiant. “The prophecy lies in your hands, Sansa Stark. If you accept my love and agree to stay with me, then obviously we are but the vessel of the true prince that was promised. We shall marry and live here. If you refuse, then that means you are Nissa Nissa, I Azor Ahai: and you must die at my sword. Well, madame, which is it? The love of a living corpse or death by that corpse’s hands?”

Sansa’s head swam. Suddenly a diplomatic turn of mind she did not realize she was capable of calmed her. 

Raising herself to her knees before him, she said, “I want to stay with you, Rhaegar! I will bear the prince into this world! If ever I tremble before you, it won’t be with fear, but with awe at your greatness!”

_He is not the only one who can speak theatrically._

She was emboldened by his sigh of contentment, the softening in his bulging eyes.

“I have given you my word. I swear it. Now you must give me yours.”

He was cagey. “What is it?”  
   
“You will let me return to the world above. Briefly! Just briefly!”

He growled and gnashed his teeth again, so she hurried on. “My sister, my little sister. I’m resigned that I’ll never see the rest of my family again, but because she’s so near, I would hate not to have the chance to say goodbye! Don’t worry, I won’t tell her the truth. I’ll simply tell her I’m going away somewhere, maybe back home. Then I’ll return.”

“You were faithless enough to take my mask, what makes you think I’ll trust you now?”

Her fire matched his. “I am willing to sacrifice everything for you, for fate, and you won’t grant me this?”

He would not be intimidated. “And what of Sandor Clegane? Would you see him again?”

She shook her head adamantly. “No, never. I’ll avoid him. Just let me stay long enough to perform once more, then I’ll come to you here. It will be my goodbye to King’s Landing.” She schooled her features into their gentlest and most appealing form. “Unless you want me to be miserable here.”

She’d touched the child in him. “I will grant you your wish, Sansa Stark. But know that I will be watching you. I see everything that happens inside this opera’s walls, and I will watch the Tyrell home, too. If I find out you’ve seen Clegane again, I will know you are Nissa Nissa and _I will kill you right in front of him_. I will not lose the woman I love to another Clegane! Do you understand?”

Sansa nodded, latching onto his words. _Everything inside the opera’s walls. Inside the walls. Inside._

A loophole formulated in her mind.

“I swear it.”

She stood, facing him with all the wolf courage in her blood.

His skull-like face collapsed into tears as she looked him full in the face without a single shudder. He saw the honor in her blue eyes.

He fell to her feet and kissed her skirt, her slippers, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her legs.

She closed her eyes, thinking.

She hoped she would not dishonor her family name. She knew what she had to do, but still she faltered inside.

Sansa had never broken a promise before, and she prayed that breaking the one she just made would not bring even more ruin to King’s Landing or those she loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sansa might seem too flighty here with her sudden infatuation for Rhaegar at the beginning, but the way I figure it, one of Sansa's chief flaws is her ability to compartmentalize too quickly and her outsize romanticism. Since Sandor acts so distant now and she's still under the Angel's influence, I think this is a fair portrayal of how she'd feel. Deep down her heart belongs to that large grumpy doofus. Notice her supposed infatuation with Rhaegar doesn't last long, too! She has a real character awakening here.
> 
> In effect, I tried squeezing in her arc with Joffrey, only with Rhaegar (who despite everything that happens here remains more likable in this story than Joffrey, hopefully.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this ghoulish Easter surprise!
> 
> Warning for a death scene that was actually quite heartbreaking for me to write, though I'm sure some reading will disagree with me about just how heartbreaking it actually is, heh. Once again I'm inspired by the 1989 Robert Englund film.
> 
> There is also a passing mention of rape, though it's only the _possibility_ of rape that's mentioned, as if that makes it any better. Thought I'd give a head's up.

The morning following the chandelier crash the members of the opera house knew one thing only: keep out of the Hound’s path. 

Sandor Clegane had the hollow-eyed look of one who hadn’t slept the night before, yet was too full of some dark adrenaline to look otherwise sluggish.

Never had he barked so violently at those around him. He dispensed orders nonstop to clear debris and to stay outside police lines. He supervised the removal of the shattered chandelier with brutal curtness to anyone he decided was slacking.

There was a sense of relief and puzzlement when at some point in the afternoon he stared hard into the distance then appeared to snap, muttering to a fellow stagehand that there was something he had to take care of and he would be gone for the next couple hours.

Ygritte watched him go, then leaned in to one of her fellow dancers, Bethany. “First the chandelier, then Cap’n Stark goes missing, and now the Hound acts like the Stranger’s got into him. I wonder if it’s all connected....”

 

Sandor stood in front of the door to the Tyrell home, clenching and unclenching his fists.

There had been too much he was forced to do last night – he’d wanted to rip apart the opera house and the city looking for her, even thought of taking the wolf girl’s suggestion of charging the cellars, but the police, the damn police! Cornering him, asking questions. He’d tried telling them about the girl, but Selmy and his men had their fucking hands full with the chandelier and those injured beneath it.

He spent the entire night stalking the halls, feeling like some caged beast. He could barely go anywhere: Selmy’s men had every exit blocked – including the doors into the cellars. There was nothing to do but wonder, worry. Had it been a lover all along, and she’d run off with him? No, Sandor nixed that right away. Would make no sense, really. She wouldn’t just leave without a word, and not after what happened.

Still, he’d have preferred that to the other notion: kidnapping.

Today…perhaps there’d been word. Perhaps the little bird flew home undetected, and was safe in her nest upstairs….

Gathering his courage, he knocked roughly on the door.

A skinny Braavosi butler answered. He gave Sandor a sneering once-over. “Yes?”

Sandor swallowed, suddenly aware of his awkward position. “Miss Stark in?”

The butler looked at him as if he were an idiot. “No. Miss Stark hasn’t been seen since last night.”

Terror and heartbreak burned inside the Hound’s chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been hoping, _banking_ on her return.

The butler felt a little afraid at the intense glare of this immense scarred man in rumpled workman’s clothes. Was he a madman?

Sandor at last tore his gaze away and turned to trudge down the steps.

He was stopped by that imperious voice he heard so often around the opera house. “Who is it?”

Olenna Tyrell emerged from the drawing room, looking out the door. She raised one wintry eyebrow. “Ah! Clegane. Good. I want to talk to you. Come here.” So saying, she returned to the drawing room, unhesitating in her belief he would obey.

Look darkening even more, he did.

 

He felt like a bloody fool sitting on the Tyrell’s couch. The place was dolled up like one of Littlefinger’s whorehouses. The saying “Bull in a Lyseni shop” came to him as he took in her delicate crockery on the coffee table before him.

The old woman’s eternal smirk was the only indication she didn’t buy into the pretense of hosting as she poured afternoon tea. “Would you like a cup, Clegane? I’ll bet you’re one of those men who act like they only consume wine and meat but secretly like heaping spoonfuls of sugar in their tea.”

“I don’t want any,” he said more brusquely than he intended.

Olenna could tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the harshness of his gravelly voice that the man had had no sleep, no mental rest from his worry. She took pity and cut to the chase.

“Well, now. I know exactly why you’re here. It’s for Sansa, isn’t it?”

His eyes focused on her so intently even the unflappable Olenna Tyrell felt almost uncomfortable.

“No word on her? None?”

Olenna shook her head gravely. “None.”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but his flared nostrils and reddened face told what she already knew.

“By gods, I knew you two had something going on, but I didn’t know it had gone this far.”

His eyes were fire on her. “What do you mean? I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Down, boy, down!” Olenna laughed, holding a hand up. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant I didn’t know your feelings for her went so far.”

He snorted. He was never one to lie. Neither was the Tyrell crone. Why bother pretending now?

“What of it,” he muttered.

“What of it indeed?” Olenna asked. “What of _all_ of this? I thought for years that the whole Phantom phenomenon was some ruse Baelish was running behind our backs with his little gang of outlaws – your noble self included.” She inclined her head to him grandly. She sighed. “Now I’m not so sure. Oh, of course it’s no ghost, but someone…and then there’s the way Sansa sounds so very much like her aunt when she sings….”

Sandor fidgeted. Save for Sansa, no one spoke to him so frankly, like he was an equal. She spoke as if she was working something through in her mind, and the fact that it included Sansa kept him on his seat’s edge.

At last she seemed to give up whatever train of thought she was on, shrugging. “Ah, well! Who knows. Why did you two put an end to things, anyhow?”

He snorted again. “You can tell that, too, can you?”

“Well, obviously her tears and shaking recently haven’t been just because of whomever this Phantom or lover is.” Her clever eyes laughed at him as he fumed. “Ah! I’ve made you jealous with that last one, haven’t I?”

He was on his feet, his face death. “What did you call me in here for? What do you want from me?”

Nonplussed, Olenna said, “The same thing as you: to see if you’ve heard of anything that might help find the poor girl.”

Olenna truly was surprised now. The Hound looked positively vulnerable, shaking almost.

Asking not her but the cosmos itself, he said, “Where in the Seven Hells could she be?”

Olenna hid her shock. Were those… _tears_ in his eyes? “Is she dead? Is she raped? Is she both? Where…where the fuck is she?” His voice was hoarse.

“I wish I knew,” Olenna said quietly, deep sadness in her own voice.

Casting her one last hell bound look, he turned and left.

 

Olenna also had to deal with the younger Stark girl, who later that evening reminded her far more of an angry alley cat than a wolf: spitting and hissing, back practically raised as she paced in front of Olenna and Margaery.

Arya hadn’t slept either. The damned Hound had to at last physically carry her to the Tyrell’s carriage close to one o’clock in the morning last night, amidst all the hubbub. She’d been screaming and kicking, the only sound from him heavy breathing. Once he threw her in, Margaery and Olenna had to hold her back from leaping at him accusingly.

What truly stopped her was the look on his face.

Confusion. Terror.

Like hers.

She’d tried unsuccessfully throughout the day to get below to the cellars. Stupid Gendry and the police kept blocking her path. There was nothing to do but swear at both of them and then finally return home with Margaery.

“Those stupid coppers!” In spite of the trying times, both Margaery and Olenna swallowed smiles at how quickly Arya picked up opera slang. Arya kicked a footstool. “They don’t care, they just _don’t care_ about San – about _Miss Stark_!” It was getting harder and harder to keep up the pretense of patroness and charity case with her only sister gone missing. “The Hound and I kept trying to bring her up to them today, and we just got brushed off!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Margaery said over her cup of tea. “Officer Selmy seems a little interested. Cersei apparently said something to him about her and so he visited my dressing room to ask me about our favorite Northern girl.”

“So? Did he say he was going to do something about it?”

Margaery realized she probably shouldn’t have spoken. “Well, er, no. You see, Arry, I got the impression he thinks….” She bit her lip.

“Well?”

“He thinks she might not be missing, but instead ran away?”

Arya’s mouth dropped open in indignation. “ _Ran away?_ Idiots! She would never do that!” She paused for a moment. All right, it was true Sansa was only at the opera house because she’d run away from home in the first place, but…this was different! Arya could just tell.

She was back to fuming. “The cops aren’t doing anything, the managers aren’t doing anything….”

“Now, child,” Olenna tried calming her. “You must see reason. Catching the man behind the chandelier crash and seeing to the victims are the first order of business for the police. As for the managers, there’s not much they can do, really. There’s dodging lawsuits on one hand, and putting on the masked ball tomorrow on the other.”

Arya groaned. “I can’t believe the idiots are putting on a _masked ball_ of all things now!”

“It’s to benefit the victims,” Margaery explained. “A way to make the opera house more welcoming and dodge said lawsuit again. Although I do wish we’d had more warning! Usually the masked ball is at the end of this month, so I thought I’d have more time to select an outfit. Now I’ll probably have to pick an old costume from storage rather than put together something new. If Sansa was here, she could probably help whip something up in no time” –

She cut herself off, uncharacteristically embarrassed. She watched Arya carefully, but luckily Sansa’s little sister was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to pay Margaery much mind.

She paced a couple minutes more, then announced, “That’s it! I’m going down to the cellars if it’s the last thing I do! I don’t care who I have to sneak by.” She stormed toward the door.

The Tyrell women were right behind her, chasing after her like farmers do rogue chickens. “Now, you come back here right now” –

Arya opened the door then froze, speechless.

Sansa stood there.

She swayed in the doorway. She was very pale and her eyes were wide and empty. She wore a beautiful light blue gown no one present had seen before. She looked like she’d been drained of all blood, all life.

A black brougham retreated into the darkness behind her.

“Sansa?” Arya whispered.

At the sound of her sister’s voice, some life appeared to come back into her face. She looked at her slowly. “Oh, Arya!” She exclaimed. “I’ve been so stupid, so wrong!” She collapsed to her knees, wrapping her arms around Arya’s waist and burying her face in her stomach. Arya was gob-smacked. Sansa sobbed like she was going to die of it.

Arya stroked her hair soothingly, in contrast to her eyes glaring at the Tyrell ladies, daring them to call the Stark sisters out after Sansa’s slip of the tongue.

Yet Margaery and Olenna only stared at the two with pensive, inscrutable faces.

 

By the next morning, Sandor felt more dead than alive. His frenzy had dimmed, and he’d sunk into a deep depression. The exits to the cellars were still barred, and no one, absolutely fucking no one but her sister seemed to care where Sansa was.

Sansa.

Little bird.

Flown away, or captured.

He completed his duties like a sleepwalker. Is this how she felt in her trance-like state? As if nothing going on around her made any difference one way or the other?

Instead of barking commands, he now quietly and evenly said, “Pull the streamer down there. Place the punch bowl in the center of the table. Make sure you stamp out the wrinkle in that carpet.”

A masked ball. What a charade.

He was so tired.

He stood on top of the grand staircase now, looking over the workmen as they prepared for the evening’s festivities. He didn’t truly take anything in.

A shy cough at his shoulder. He turned.

Podrick Payne stood there again, more on edge than ever. He’d heard the Hound’s moods were changing faster than a winter storm these days, and so the pageboy prepared himself for anything.

All he got was a bored glance and then, “What is it?”

He held up a letter. “Sender asked me not to reveal her – er, _or his_ identity.”

Sandor felt like there was an earthquake inside him as he recognized her handwriting on the envelope: “To Mr. Sandor Clegane.”

Life leapt back into his features.

He tore open the letter without acknowledging Podrick’s relieved parting bow.

He scarcely breathed as he read:

_“Sandor,_

_I’ve returned. Don’t come to see me. He will be watching. I’ll come find you at the masked ball tonight. Don’t look for me. I’ll approach you. I told him I’d dress as the woman clothed in the sun, but hopefully I can trick him by dressing as a septa instead._

_I should have listened to you, Sandor. I’m so sorry._

_Don’t worry about me for the moment. He said he would let me be until the end of the performance tomorrow. But still, we need to be very careful. We can’t let him see us together._

_I hope you don’t hate me for everything. I would die if you did._

_Sansa.”_

Sandor read the letter twice more, three times more. He wanted to bury his face in the letter and breathe it in like some love-struck green boy.

She was alive, alive, scared and threatened, but _alive._

Was she hurt, though? She implied he’d been right about someone deceiving her. Did she know now who he was? Why not go to the police? Did whoever he was…put his hands on her? 

A part of Sandor still wondered if the girl herself wasn’t a bit touched in the head; what was this shite about a woman clothed in the sun or whatever? Sounded vaguely familiar. Some fairytale of hers, no doubt.

Poor bird.

He wanted to storm over to the Tyrells to see her. Hang any threat of the bastard watching. However, he knew she would think he wasn’t respecting her wishes; if he wanted to get to the bottom of whatever the hells was going on, he’d have to play by her rules for now.

He gritted his teeth. It would be a long wait for this evening.

 

 _A septa, a septa,_ he repeated to himself once the ball started and the staircase and foyer filled with guests, all remarkably cheery in the face of the recent disaster.

Usually he’d busy himself backstage while the ball carried on, the Hound hating that sort of frivolity. Ridiculous costumes, shrieking girls, lecherous fools, an out of tune orchestra, all of it was anathema to him. But today he forced himself through, ignoring the disdainful glances directed at his usual stagehand slacks and vest. He wasn’t going to hide himself; costumes were for cowards. Whoever this arsehole was, Sandor refused to hide from him.

The only other people present who joined him out of costume were Selmy’s men. The head sergeant was back in full force. Baelish wasn’t even trying now to convince him to go easy on surveillance. Selmy’s wife, on the other hand, the still handsome and sociable Ashara Dayne, more than made up for her husband’s stiff black uniform by dressing as some manner of ostentatious peacock queen.

Also present was Cersei Lannister, who acted remarkably unfazed by the chandelier destroying her performance. She was apparently too single-minded in her grief for her son to let any other trauma in. She had cornered Selmy, whispering something in his ear by the punchbowl. She was dressed elegantly in red and glimmering gold, bright diamond studs all along the hem of her skirt, which only reminded Sandor of a spider web. Her hair was piled high atop her head with a tiara on top. 

There were too many queens here for Sandor’s liking, not enough septas.

His attention was caught by a great hushed gasp all along the stairs. Even the music came to a temporary halt. Sandor was by the top railing, easily seeing over a flock of heads what the commotion was.

Even his jaded eyes widened.

The resplendent figure of a great red dragon stood there, the crowd parted on both sides around him. He was wrapped in a scarlet velvet cloak, serving as the dragon’s wings. A scarlet doublet reached up to his neck, where the wide collar was hemmed by golden silk.

The dragon’s head was apparently modeled after the supposed skeletons found beneath the Red Keep: a scarlet fleshless skull with crimson teeth. Orange feathers burst from the back of the mask, looking like a crown made of flames.

He was a terrifying, magnetic figure, all eyes turned to him.

He made his way down slowly, inclining his head with what seemed like courtly irony to each group he passed.

Out of the line of gawkers, a drunk Meryn Trant stumbled up to him. “And who are you, mate? All trussed up like this, you got to be some fancy noble, eh?” He reached out to snatch the mask away.

A bright red gloved hand squeezed Trant’s wrist, causing him to cry out in pain. Sandor slitted his eyes.

There were actual claws embedded into the fingers of the glove, cutting now into Meryn’s skin.

As the onlookers were too stunned at the sight of the bullying Trant cowering on his knees whimpering to make any sound themselves, Sandor could easily hear the dragon announce quite calmly, “One does not touch the Great Red Dragon. One bows instead.”

He at last released Trant, who collapsed against the railing, massaging his wrist.

Sandor, meanwhile, was inflamed.

He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but that voice….

_The voice in Sansa’s dressing room._

Growling, he was about to advance when a soft hand clutched his arm.

He turned to see a septa with familiar blue eyes staring at him through her eye mask.

His heart beat very loudly. All he could say was, “Girl.”

He could see the expression in those blue eyes melt at the sound of his voice. “I should have known you wouldn’t wear a costume,” she said, gently chiding him. “It will make it more difficult to hide from him, but hopefully he won’t see us in the crowd….”

It was her, it was her, her voice, _her voice._

He fought with the emotion tightening his throat. He wanted to crush her to his chest, but this wasn’t the time or place. “Where have you been? Was that dragon fucker him? I can take care of this right here, right now.”

Her eyes now had terror in them as she squeezed his wrist, much as the dragon had Meryn. “Don’t be a fool!” She said swiftly. “He…I’m not sure what he’s capable of, but I can’t risk you doing that. _Please.”_

The way she said it…Sandor had to acquiesce, but he grimaced nonetheless. “Then what do you want to see me for?” He sounded bitterer than he meant. But the Hound felt useless again, and it was a gnawing, irritating feeling, especially when it came to her.

Luckily, she was too preoccupied to pay his tone much mind. She glanced over the railing. “He’s dancing with Cersei Lannister now.” She appeared to think for a moment. She looked upward. “The roof,” she whispered to herself. “Yes, that’s it. That’s _outside the opera’s walls.”_

Sandor was frustrated. “Stop talking in riddles, damn you! What are you talking about?”

He was always so blinded by her eyes, fucking fool. They were very bright now. “Come with me!” She led him through the crowd toward the foyer.

 

Cersei felt satisfied. Aside from the momentary mortification she felt when the chandelier came down, destroying her comeback performance, a sly triumph soaked into her bones.

Selmy was listening to her now.

She had written him constantly since Joffrey’s death, ordering him to interrogate the Stark bitch. _She_ was the one responsible. The old fool had had the gall to write back that the clever little dove had already approached him with what she knew, and he concluded that Sansa Stark did not have the brute force to end her son’s life the way it happened.

His words only stoked the fire in her heart. Ah, so Sansa was the last one to see Joffrey alive! Cersei’s suspicions were confirmed. Selmy did have a point about the girl’s weak strength, however….

So an accomplice, then. An accomplice.

This theory was vindicated by the chandelier disaster. Some tenor – an oddly familiar tenor, too – had released the light fixture in Sansa Stark’s name – and then the girl had gone missing.

Obviously, the girl’s lover had acted on her behalf, in exchange for carrying her off for the time being.

Cersei had cornered Selmy with this theory earlier today by her dressing room, and could tell that this time, _this time,_ the man was listening. Truly listening. 

Now Cersei heard Sansa had returned.

Wasting no time, Cersei approached Selmy again, practically backing him right into the wall by the entrance. She told him that Sansa’s return coincided with tomorrow’s re-opening of the opera. That could be no coincidence. She expected to take Cersei’s place.

Selmy looked at her squarely. “I’ll admit you make a compelling argument, madame,” he conceded.

Cersei’s heart swelled. “Then you’ll arrest her?” 

Selmy shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t without any evidence. I can only question her.”

He found the fire in her eyes rather unsettling. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I have evidence. I can show you that tomorrow before the opera.”

He frowned. “What sort of evidence, madame? Why haven’t you presented this before?”

Cersei shrugged delicately. “One of my spies around here only just found it tonight. He brought it to me at home. I’m afraid I left it there. Like I said, I’ll bring it to you straightaway tomorrow.” _I can find a sample of the girl’s handwriting. I’m a good forger. All those years at Casterly forging Father’s signature on various bank accounts…I can do anything. I can write a letter, write down what her plans were in her own words, directed to her lover._

Cersei had no doubt of the girl’s guilt. Cunning little she-beast. It would serve her right to get arrested on faulty evidence, since apparently she was clever enough not to generate any of her own. She’d eventually confess who her accomplice was after a stern interrogation from Selmy. Cersei felt sure of that.

Selmy bowed formally, then turned away toward his beckoning wife.

Cersei turned around and the breath stilled in her throat.

She was face to face with that splendid dragon man from the staircase.

The dragon bowed deeply to her with far more easy grace than Selmy, spreading his cloaked wings. In one hand he held a glass of punch. “I have taken the liberty, madame. I hope you do not mind.”

 _Such a smooth silky voice. Almost like…almost like…._

Usually she kept aloof from suitors like this, but tonight…tonight was a jubilant one, and she wanted to celebrate.

Plus, what a conquest! His mask was horrifying, but Cersei Lannister didn’t fear anything. She would enjoy adding this man to her mounting triumphs.

She accepted the cup and took a couple sips as he professed his devotion. “I never fail to see your performances, Ms. Lannister. Truly you are a gift to the stage…” The dark, obscured eyes in the mask stared out at her. “…And to the eyes.”

She took another sip, smiling. “And to whom do I speak?”

He put a playful finger to the mask’s gaping maw and sharp teeth. “Ah! That I cannot reveal.”

“Why not?”

He tilted his head. “I’ll tell you what. How about a trade?”

“A trade?”

“Yes. You dance with me and answer some of my own questions, then I’ll tell you my name.”

The suspicious diva was immediately on the alert. “What sort of questions?” She asked warily.

His voice was a seductive purr. “Questions about _you_ , madame.”

A deep burning tingle shot through Cersei’s body that she hadn’t felt since Jaime left her.

Without a word, she accepted his gloved hand, placing her glass on the table. She looked down at the glove's claws.

“Don’t worry, my dear. These won’t scratch unless otherwise provoked.”

He spun her around the dance floor.

What an exquisite dancer, and what a strong, slender figure! Cersei felt almost young again, giddy. The punch had gone straight to her head.

She coughed through a sudden slight thickness in her throat. “Ask away, sir.”

He was quiet for several moments. Then, “You have been very brave throughout your ordeal, madame.”

At this point, Cersei would usually have thrown his hands off of her and then stalked off. She did not discuss her personal woes with anyone, much less a stranger.

Yet there was such a strange depth of feeling to his voice…an assurance she responded to.

She said nothing, but she did not stop dancing with him, either.

“I know I may be intruding on matters not my own, but I can’t help but ask for your sake: have they apprehended the madman responsible yet?”

Cersei saw Sansa’s beautiful face in her mind’s eye. “How do you know it’s a man?” She asked, surprising herself with her candid words.

“Why, I only assumed….”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Cersei said, coughing again. She was getting excited, carried away, but she couldn’t stop herself. “It’s two people: one a man, one a woman.”

“A woman?” He murmured.

“Yes. One who stands to gain everything by my departure from the theater.”

“Ah!” The figure said, catching on. He twirled her, then brought her close, making her breathe in sharply, though not displeased by the pressure of his hands on her. “Sansa Stark,” he purred.

She merely smiled ambiguously. “I can’t say,” she said, slightly teasing.

He twirled her again. “You are indeed a most astute, fascinating woman.”

She thrilled at his tone. There was none of the empty flattery she was used to. In his tone there was lust, power. She was responding to it, responding to it….

She was terribly dizzy, yet he’d stopped twirling her.

She coughed again. She touched her throat, growing alarmed. It was as if she hadn’t swallowed something all the way…but she hadn’t eaten for hours.

With strong strides he danced with her toward the window, by the back of the staircase, where no one could see them.

By now, every breath was a struggle for Cersei. The room spun around and around, though she was conscious of the fact they were no longer moving.

“I can’t…I can’t….” She rasped, clutching her throat.

“You can’t breathe?” There was ice now in his voice.

Cersei shook through her nausea, through the dizziness, through her throat closing down.

He spoke plainly as if they were merely discussing the weather. “Ah! That is probably the extra little something I put into your drink. It worked remarkably well on your late husband, as I recall. It took me seventeen years to perfect the potion, but I wager I felt just as much satisfaction as you did once I learned he’d succumbed.”

The world was growing dark for Cersei.

He leaned into her ear and his breath was so cold on her neck. “You should have left Sansa alone, Cersei. I believe now it is time I answer your question. My name is…”

He lifted his mask to her. “….Rhaegar.”

The last thing Cersei Lannister ever saw was his purple eyes within his ruined face.

Everyone around them laughed, thinking the diva was merely passed out drunk in the dragon’s arms.

He made sure no one was looking before he laid her corpse out behind the back of the staircase, where he knew no one would look before morning.

He glanced up in just enough time to see a septa lead the Hound away upstairs, down the hall.

He saw the septa look up, and he knew instinctively where she was headed.

In a mob of sleek, lusty outfits, she thought she could fool him by standing out dressed virtuously.

Fire consuming his soul, he stepped quickly outside. It would be a long climb, but luckily he knew a few hallways he could sneak into that would still get him there sooner than his blind, foolish girl.


	20. Chapter 20

Sandor was sure the two of them made quite the picture, the graceful septa and the imposing Hound trailing after her. He never knew the girl could move so quickly, with such purpose. She was a little general leading her troop of one.

She led him through the bustling, brightly costumed crowd, through the foyer, the backstage, and finally charging up the steps to the roof. Did she really mean to go all the way up?

“Is this necessary?” He couldn’t help ask, rankled. He hated secrecy. He hated hiding.

“Yes,” was all she said, still staring ahead single-mindedly. She kept his hand in hers.

He wondered she wasn’t tired yet. The climb upstairs was quite the hike, and at her pace….

Obviously, something beyond physical exhaustion was driving her.

At last they reached the top. Sansa opened the door and a burst of black sky, stars, and moonlight shone on them, as if she’d opened a portal to a twilight world far separate from the artificial revelry they left behind.

Her septa’s habit blew in the breeze as she led them to the statue of the Warrior at the center of the roof. Various Valyrian gargoyles stood guard perched over the corners, overseeing the darkened silhouettes that made up King’s Landing. 

From where Sansa bid them sit at the feet of the Warrior, they could just make out the glimmering Blackwater against the horizon.

Very faintly they could hear the music and laughter below from the ballroom. 

She breathed shallowly for several seconds. She removed her habit and mask.

His breath stopped. Her face was an illustration of sorrow. All color was gone, and in its place shadows under her hollowed, dead eyes – dead save for a frank look of appeal.

Sandor cracked. Releasing a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan, he pulled her to him and kissed her, kissed her with maddened frenzy. He was drinking water after a week perishing in a desert.

Still grunting, he applied the same pressure to kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips again, everywhere, his fingers digging into her skull through her hair, a dark brownish-red in the night. The moon caught the copper strands and they glowed like rubies through his fingers.

He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t. The months of worry erupted in this embrace. He was reclaiming her, almost like an animal does its mate. A bear, a lion, a hound losing and finding its cherished cub again couldn’t have felt a more primal longing for the beloved in its paws as he did, to feel her skin pressed against his own.

At last he stopped for air, pressing her face into his neck. A great calming warmth engulfed him, a searing triumph in his heart. She was alive, she was in his arms, she breathed, his skin was against hers.

Sansa savored the warmth of his neck and the reassuring scratch of his beard against her lips. Relieved tears stung her eyes. He cherished her still, he wanted her. His large hands pressed her shoulders possessively. His arms were like iron around her. She breathed in that lingering scent of leather, the theater, and horses she always associated with Sandor. 

She felt the same warm calm as he did descend on her. For the first time in ages, she felt home. 

They stayed locked in this embrace silently for what seemed like an hour.

Suddenly she felt him stiffen slightly, then withdraw his chin from where it pinned her head down to his neck. She looked up into his eyes. He was watching her with a touch of wariness.

Now that he was able to think rationally again, he remembered that nowhere in her letter or in their brief interactions at the ball did she indicate she wanted to resume their relationship. As far as he knew, they were still…not what they once were.

As blind with desire and tenderness he was, he couldn’t…he _wouldn’t_ let himself pressure her, especially when she was in such a state. Plus, he was in no mood to have her let him down all over again.

Yet the soft look in her eyes as she stared at him gave him some courage. He couldn’t help stroking her hair, her hair, his wonderful mad girl’s hair….

He sighed and raised an eyebrow. “Well? What’s this all about, then?”

He saw oceans of resigned misery in her eyes. “Sometimes I think I’ve gone mad. Truly mad. But then I know…I know what I’ve seen. It’s all true. All of it.”

Sandor’s look darkened. “What, the Angel?”

She frowned at the bitter sarcasm in his voice. “No, I told you, no! I mean, there _is_ a man. Underground.”

“Sansa….”

She suddenly went rigid like a cat, grabbing his arm. She stared around them in terror. “What was that?”

He wrinkled his brow. “What was what?”

“That sound! Didn’t you hear it? Didn’t you?” Her voice raised on the last words, her fingers clinging to his arms. “I heard something, I swear! A man’s voice!”

“Just the wind, little bird,” he said. He looked her over again. She was so worn out, exhausted, yet that inner fire in her kept her eyes wide and distrustful as they darted around the roof. She touched her temple. “Then again, I always hear him. Well, not as much as before. I’m not really under his spell anymore, everything that’s happened has sort of woken me up, I guess. But…I still hear him sometimes….”

With her frozen posture and pure white robes, she was like a statue of the Maiden to join the Warrior as she stared into the night.

His pressure on her shoulder gave her life again. “Tell me now or tell me to fuck off. One or the other, little bird. No more of this shit.”

His words were as final as the grave.

She turned her gaze back to him. The blue in her eyes seemed to wash straight through to his soul.

She sighed and closed her eyes. Opening them, she told him everything.

She told him about the lessons again, the fear, the ecstasy. The chandelier, the mirror, the man in the mask. The strange journey down the spiraled staircase, the ride on Stranger’s back, the voyage across the lake. The lair, by turns homey and fantastical. The golden bedroom with Lyanna’s portrait. 

Rhaegar.

Once she said the name, another voice echoed her, she was sure. She looked behind her and up.

All she saw was the Warrior’s dark stone face.

 _“Rhaegar?”_ Sandor’s voice was gruff with outrage. “Rhaegar fucking Targaryen?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She had gone mad, surely. Whatever was done to her in whatever twisted cage the bird had frantically beat her wings against had broken her mind.

His broken, strong little bird.

He squeezed her arms almost to the point of pain. “Girl, stop this nonsense. Rhaegar Targaryen is dead, and every bloody mouth-breather in Westeros and all the fucking world knows that.”

She didn’t look surprised at his disbelief, only disappointed and crestfallen. She shook her head wearily. “I know how it sounds. I know. I couldn’t believe at first. But I soon did. I soon did.” 

She certainly sounded and looked sane as she spoke, although bitter and rueful.

She described Rhaegar's courtliness and the various trinkets and gifts he left for her in that gilded room. Sandor shifted. This has to be a mad fantasy, so there was no reason for him to feel jealous. None.

She described his music. She described the overwhelming urge to unmask him.

Her fingers dug painfully into Sandor’s forearm. She was almost hyperventilating.

Tears streaming down her face, she described the unmasking and what she found beneath.

Neither heard the hurt cry lost in the wind above them.

In dull tones, she repeated everything Rhaegar had told her about the night of the Scandal. About the way Sandor’s brother had ruined not only Sandor’s face, but Rhaegar’s, as well.

Sandor almost felt angry at her. If she was making this all up or even if she’d imagined it, assigning his own disfigurement at Gregor’s hands to Rhaegar bloody Targaryen was unusually cruel.

She painted a portrait of Rhaegar’s insane wrath. She spoke of the mad prophecies.

And what he viewed as her part in them.

“He told me that if I were to betray him, that would mean I am to fulfill the prophecy through death. He said he’d put a flaming sword through my chest” –

 _“STOP.”_ She jolted at the violent grief in Sandor’s tone. She couldn’t see his face, for she was suddenly crushed to his chest again. He buried his chin into her hair as if to pin her to him permanently. “I won’t hear that talk. I won’t.” 

His eyes were looking back at that fireplace of his youth. He was pleading with Gregor to let him go but then the flames were all he could see, all he could feel.

He held Sansa tighter. “No. No more of that, now.”

All the detail she’d provided….gods, could it all be real? He was one of the few people who knew about that lake underneath the opera house. Baelish had told him about it as a precaution, directing Sandor to help keep it secret. Baelish didn’t want to risk attracting sight-seeing riffraff down in the cellars. 

How could Sansa know about the lake when hardly anyone else did? 

If she was telling the truth, that meant Targaryen’s threat with the fire and sword was…he shivered and drew her yet nearer.

“All right, so what happened next?” He asked after he’d recovered from the image of some madman wielding fire at the little bird.

“He kept me there for the rest of the day, playing me more of his opera. The music was beyond anything I’d ever heard before.” Her eyes sparkled. “Like a dream! I know I’ll never hear music like that again.”  
Her voice took on a dreamier, gentler tone. “He was very kind and attentive. Oh, Sandor, he was trying so, so hard to placate me. He knew that his rage had scared me just as much as his face – more so, really, far more so, though I’m sure he’d doubt that. He…he even performed magic tricks for me. He knows so many bizarre, sensational things! He can throw his voice, and just by moving his hand a certain way, he can make doors within the lair open and close. He showed me a little of his library, which was as immense as he said. All sorts of books were there, not just the ancient tomes he spoke of. Gods, I could have spent ages looking through his medieval books of poetry alone! And Bran, if Bran could get ahold of those history books we’d never see him again! He wouldn’t let me into the lowest level. When I asked about it, he said there were secrets down there not even I was allowed to know yet. He said I needed to prove my faithfulness first, once I returned above. He took me back to the Tyrell’s home. I was so tired by the time we reached the house. He kissed the hem of my skirt again and opened the door for me. Sandor, I can’t tell you how much he was, well, a gentleman. A true gentleman.”

She gazed out into the night, expression as gentle as her voice. “I can’t find it in my heart to hate him. He’s so lost. I fear him, but in a way he’s still my Angel.”

A small smile appeared on her face as she heard that music again in her mind. His voice.

Sandor released her abruptly. He stood.

Sansa blinked, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, but she could tell his eyes were burning.

His fists - those eternally clenched fists.

Sandor felt the tell-tale lump in his throat. Some ghost’s hand was squeezing his heart in a searing hot grip.

_Her face as she spoke of the wonders of his lair, as she spoke of his tricks, his manners – her childlike amazement at her ‘true gentleman’._

He forgot any lingering doubt of her story. His staggering jealousy made him breathe with the chugging fury of a freight train.

“Tell me something, girl.” His voice was flat but rasping. “If you’d unmasked Rhaegar Targaryen and saw the face from your aunt’s sheet music, would you even be here talking to me?”

Sansa was confused. “What do you mean?”

He chuckled darkly. “Aye, I knew you were lying about not minding my scars. That’s all that’s in the way of you falling head over heels in love with this bastard, isn’t it?”

Even in the dim light, he could tell her face turned crimson.

She was on her feet now. “I” – She swallowed, stopping short. She remembered in a rush her intoxication with that image at the pipe organ, the strong back, the smooth tenor.

Sandor only chuckled again. “Why shouldn’t you fall for him? A brilliant elegant toff takes you on a boat ride underground to his palace. Just like out of one of your songs, eh, little bird?”

“That’s not fair!” Sansa insisted. “You – listen. Listen, please. I…I did think about it. At first. I was taken away by everything, I admit it. But his madness, Sandor! All the things he’s done!”

She hated that sour, disgusted chuckle of his. “Oh, save it. You knew about the things he’d done, and anyone could have figured the man was daft. All that turned you away was his ugly mug. You’ll forget that, once you get used to the mask again. You’ll get ‘taken away’ once more. Well, bugger that. I won’t wear a mask, little bird, no matter how much I might repulse you.” He spat. "I ain't no coward, like your dragon knight in shining fucking armor."

“I could strike you, I really could!” She cried. Her eyes were hard sapphires and her chest heaved. _Damn his lust for noticing._ “Just _listen to me!_ Was I disturbed by his face? Yes, yes, I was. I won’t lie. But…but Sandor, once I heard his talk about prophecies, once I heard his threats, I realized something.”

Her eyes warmed as she looked at him. “I realized that you two had the same story: your faces were burned by Gregor Clegane. He hurt you both, so terribly. It was as if you both were steered down the same horrible path, but at the fork in the road, he turned left and you turned right. He went mad, and you….” She gave him that dear lopsided grin again as she cupped his burnt cheek. “You soldiered on. You won’t hurt me.”

Sandor stood rock still. She waited, hardly breathing.

He'd begun to slowly soften as she spoke, swayed by her words. But as she spoke about him not hurting her, he stiffened again.

“So I’m the lesser of two evils, then? Is that it?”

He might as well have driven his fist into her stomach. “What?”

He swept her hand away from his face. “You fell for the fancy git, and when he wasn’t what you imagined, you figured you’d throw the dog a bone again. You can always count on me to get you out of your fix.” She could just make out the typical wry twist in his stubbled cheek. “Forget it, little bird. A man’s got to have his pride, even if he is more hound than man.”

Despite his harsh speech, he felt a twinge as her distraught eyes filled with tears again.

“No, no,” she said, almost stamping her foot. She sounded to him like a child who didn’t know how to act when her favored playmate wouldn’t do as she wished. “You don’t understand. I realized something down there, realized what I’ve known all along! I love you, Sandor.”

He shut his eyes as if in pain. He shook his head. “You’re a child, just a child.” His voice was gentler. “You don’t know what you want or what you feel.” 

“Sandor” –

“You’ve been through shit, girl. You just feel bad for turning me down and now you need my help. That’s all.” He suddenly felt ninety years old. He was tired and hurting.

And she was so young as she shook her head with such vehemence he feared it might fall off her neck. “I know I’m young, I know I’ve been childish! But” –

“We won’t talk about it anymore, bird.”

“Yes, we will!” She shouted shrilly. She was shaking. “You love me too, I can tell! The way you held me just now! You kissed me, Sandor!”

He laughed again. He felt a strong desire to wake her up once and for all from her fantasies, show her what life above ground without a romantic demented genius was like. She’d learned nothing, no matter what she claimed. “A kiss don’t equal love, little bird. You should fucking know that. You think you can traipse in with your privilege and your class and just steamroll over whatever lusty fuck you meet? Think you’re that irresistible?”

She collapsed back at the feet of the Warrior. She looked like a doll whose stuffing had been gutted out of her. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her round eyes never left his, and something in his stomach churned seeing the innocent depth of her hurt there.

The words were spoken, though, and the Hound never apologized.

At last she looked down and said nothing more. All he could hear were her ragged little breaths.

He forced himself to look away. “I don’t even know if everything you’ve told me is true, little bird, but I know you need to get out of here. For your physical safety or your mental safety, I don’t know.”

Only her breathing. 

“Let’s go down and collect your sister. I’ll make sure you get started back to Winterfell tonight.”

“No,” her voice was so far away. “I promised him. I promised him I’d sing one more time. Then I’ll go.”

_Claims she doesn’t love the man, but wants to keep this bloody promise. I see the way of it._

“This isn’t a child’s game,” he yelled at her fiercely. She flinched. Good. She _should_ flinch. She should _wake the fuck up_. “A promise don’t mean shit if it’s given under duress. It might be too late by then.”

With childlike stubbornness, she turned away from him.

Enraged, he grabbed her shoulder and made her face him. “Do you hear me? Don’t you want to go home?”

That was the right question to ask. Lady’s tongue on her face, licking away her tears. Father and Mother stroking her hair, her back, comforting her. Arya, Bran, and Rickon playing down the hall. Robb and Jon joking loudly on their horses outside. Winterfell. “Yes, I want to go home.”

He yanked her up. “Then come on.”

She shook again. “What about – what about you and me?”

He refused to capitulate. “I’ll see you and the she-wolf home safe, I promise you that. You’ll go home, grow up some more, and forget all about me. It would never work, little bird, you know that. Hells, the minute Ned Stark sees the burnt face of Gregor Clegane’s brother on his doorstep, he’ll probably blow a gasket. I just” – He struggled for the right words. “All along I just wanted to make sure you were all right, little bird. I shouldn’t reach higher than that.”

Her voice was oddly empty. “So you don’t believe I love you?”

He shook his head silently as he pulled her toward the door. 

“And you don’t love me?”

Her voice was steadier now, penetrating. Challenging.

He said nothing. He opened the door and gently nudged her through. “Down you get.”

He shut the door behind them.

For a moment, the constant breeze was the only movement on the roof.

Until a flash of scarlet emerged from behind the Warrior.

Clawed gloves gouged into the Warrior’s shield.

Beneath the Dragon’s mask, Rhaegar’s own teeth gnashed together. Tears clouded his purple eyes.

To prevent her leaving tonight, there was only one thing he could do, inconvenient as it may be. And he must be very quick about it.

He stamped down for now the overwhelming, mortifying wave of betrayal crashing down on him. To hear Lyanna’s voice tell the monster’s brother all Rhaegar’s secrets….ah, there had never been such heartbreak before. Not since the fire.

As they spoke, he eventually lost track of the words themselves. A loud humming filled his skull, blocking out everything but red rage. 

He scaled down the opera walls now like a lizard, passing them as they rushed downstairs. They would be blocked by the revelers. He had time. He hopped onto another gargoyle, then slid into the window down the hall that he knew was empty. One story down was Cersei’s corpse. He must be very fast now.

Once he reached the ballroom again, he took in how drunk the party-goers now were, which would work to his advantage – no one would pay him or his actions heed.

There was a chair behind Selmy, the police chief taken up tending to his wife, dear Arthur's sister.

Rhaegar would make sure that when Selmy turned, he’d see Cersei’s purple face staring back at him.

Throughout the descent, the re-entrance, and the preparations, one lone coherent thought circled his howling heartbreak.

_She is Nissa Nissa. She is Nissa Nissa. She will sing for me once more and then the sword will pierce her onstage, in front of him._

 

Sandor tried to ignore Sansa's emotionless tone as they pushed through the intoxicated couples blocking their path. “Arya didn’t come tonight. She hates dances. She’s at the Tyrells, probably bothering the servants in the kitchen.”

 _“Move,”_ Sandor growled at a trio of caroling prop men, wine bottles in hand. “Good,” he said to her once they made it through the men’s interlocked arms. “We’ll need to stop there to gather your things, anyway.” He waited impatiently for a sea of tipsy ballet girls to rush past them at the top of the stairs. “You be quick about packing, now. Anything you don’t need right away, leave behind. We can send for it later.”

He gripped her hand firmly. She realized dumbly through the shock his cruel words caused that their positions had changed: instead of her leading him up, he was leading her down.

She’d lost him. She’d lost him. He was helping her, but she’d lost him. 

Not even when confronted with the truth about the Angel or the devastation of Rhaegar’s insanity had she ever felt so hopeless.

He kept snapping at the swaying King’s Landing citizens in their way. Sandor never softened his grip on her wrist.

They were on the ground level now, near the door –

A greater mass of bodies than above blocked them. Panicked shouts and whispers gathered over a certain spot near the exit.

“What’s going on?” Sansa asked almost to herself.

Sandor glowered at the mob, fearing what it could mean. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out later. We need to go now.”

He headed toward the door, but Selmy stepped forward, stopping them. “I’m afraid you will not be leaving just now, Miss Stark.” 

The older man was very grave and pale.

In their hurry, Sansa forgot to replace her habit and mask. Both she and Sandor regretted this now.

Sandor glared at Selmy as Sansa just gawked. “What do you mean?” He snarled.

Selmy eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then his serious gaze fell directly on Sansa. “Cersei Lannister is dead, Miss Stark. She died sitting up. It looks like poison. Seeing as last time I spoke to her tonight, she mentioned having in her possession evidence against you, I am afraid I must hold you for questioning.”

Sansa was too numb to feel anything but a weak resignation. She could sense Sandor’s rage, however, radiating off his body in waves.

His heart broke at her matter-of-fact little voice. “I suppose I shall be staying tonight, Sandor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to take what happens in the rooftop scene in the novel, which begins with Raoul doubting and jealous but ends with him accepting Christine's love, and flipping it here. Don't hate me, fellow SanSan fans! *dodges thrown lemoncakes* Just increasing the tension, as always!


	21. Chapter 21

Tyrion stared at Sansa Stark. 

They were all gathered in Baelish’s office. How ridiculous they were in their costumes on an occasion like this. Littlefinger sat behind his desk dressed as a bandit (appropriately enough), face unreadable save for his snapping eyes. Tyrion sat beside him, dressed as one of those numerous Valyrian sun gods. Selmy in sharp contradiction wore his usual strict black uniform, standing in front of Sansa Stark. The young septa without a habit sat in the center of the room pale and frightened.

Behind Tyrion and Baelish near the window stood Varys, so still and silent it was easy to forget his presence. Like Selmy and the Hound, he wore no costume.

By the door behind Sansa stood the Hound, for who knows what reason, Tyrion thought. The head stagehand closely resembled his moniker, as if he’d treat anyone who even looked at the girl wrong to a vicious mauling.

Tyrion wondered faintly if Sandor Clegane, the opera’s cynical, emotionless guard dog had fallen in love with the pretty little singer.

Once upon a time, such a thought would have engrossed Tyrion, amazed him.

Now he only felt dull.

Now he only stared at Sansa, trying to imagine her as a killer.

The killer of his sister.

He stared at her stunned blue eyes. He heard her shallow breaths. The girl looked like hell.

No, he decided. No, this girl could not have possibly killed Cersei.

 _Cersei…._

Selmy finished presenting Sansa with the dry facts: Cersei had claimed possession of some sort of evidence linking Sansa to Joffrey Baratheon’s death, with a possible accomplice. Not an hour later, Selmy turned to find Cersei propped up as if waiting for afternoon tea in the chair behind him, dead from what early examination thought either heart failure – or poison.

Selmy was stern but not unnecessarily harsh. “Young lady, I would like to hear what you have to say.”

It was the Hound who spoke. “She doesn’t have to tell you a damn thing. The woman hated her, would say anything to get her arrested. Sansa Stark didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Selmy sharply addressed Sandor. “And tell me, sir, how are you so certain? Why were you and Miss Stark in such a rush to leave earlier?”

Sansa opened her mouth. “I” –

“Is it against the law to leave a party full of drunken animals?” Sandor barked. His eyes were red with anger.

Selmy would not back down. “Or perhaps we do not have to leave this room to find Miss Stark’s accomplice” –

“Oh, bloody hell” –

 _“Sandor.”_ Sansa was the wolf again. “Let me tell them.”

Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at the look of panic that entered the Hound’s hard eyes, tight lips. “Girl” –

_Good gods, could Sansa Stark actually have had anything to do with this? With her lover the Hound as accomplice?_

He shuddered.

“It’s all right,” she said in a softer voice. “I won’t have them accusing you.” Voice and expression surprisingly steady, she turned back to Selmy and the others. She told them. Told them everything.

Her eyes glowed with honest fervor. Her voice cracked as she spoke, but never faltered.

And Tyrion felt a deeper wave of shock, of pity than he ever had before in his whole life.

Mad. The poor girl was mad.

He stole a glance at Baelish. The impresario was obviously holding back some biting fury. Selmy was very quiet, very grave.

Varys did not turn from the window.

The Hound looked as if she was stabbing him with each word.

Tyrion could take no more. “Gentlemen, enough. As the murdered woman’s brother, I think I have the right to say the girl is suffering from some sort of mental turmoil. She can't be responsible.”

“You do not think that very mental turmoil could in fact lead to violence?” Selmy rejoined.

Sansa looked desperate. “I’m not lying! I’m not! I’m not mad!”

She looked at each man. She turned around. “Sandor?”

He stared at her with suppressed sympathy but said nothing.

All of them…even him. They all thought her mad.

A hot fury consumed her. She would not take this lying down. “You don’t believe me? Go ahead, then! Take your men below, Officer! See if I'm wrong!” 

Her heart skipped a beat after she spoke, instantly regretting her words. It was bad enough she’d been forced to reveal Rhaegar’s secrets, but to urge an invasion of his lair by the police?

Baelish stood then. “My dear, you know how fond of you I am. I can assure you there is no madman beneath the opera house; certainly I would know about it, wouldn’t I? I advise you to rest.”

Selmy looked speculative, however. “My men are searching Ms. Lannister’s house as we speak, madame. If they do not find the evidence of which she spoke, we do not have enough reason to arrest you.”

Both Sansa and Sandor released breaths they hadn't realized they’d been holding.

“However, I remain suspicious. Suspicious of you both.”

Sansa half stood in her panic. “I tell you, Sandor Clegane had nothing to do with this! He’s just – been my friend throughout everything!” At Selmy’s doubtful look, she continued, “Ask anyone present the night the chandelier came down! The voice everyone heard was a tenor, wasn’t it? Mr. Clegane’s voice, as you might notice, is about as far from a tenor as you can get!”

“Girl, calm down,” Sandor said quietly.

“No. What do I have to say to prove he’s innocent and that I’m not insane?” 

Despite themselves, each man present was impressed by the steel in her look, her voice. Her eyes were overwhelmingly bright.

Selmy was silent for several moments, then said, “You will perform tomorrow night.”

“What?” Sansa whispered.

“I’ve no doubt you’ve been through some sort of ordeal, miss. Whether or not you were involved in Ms. Lannister’s death, I am sure some measure of coercion was involved. Whoever is behind these murders and the chandelier crash obviously knows his way around the opera house” – here he darted a vaguely accusing glance at Sandor, but then quickly relented – “Who, unlike Mr. Clegane as you say, is a tenor. And if you're telling the truth that whoever this figure is plans to carry you off after the performance tomorrow, we can hopefully apprehend him then – if you lead him to us.”

She shook her head wearily. “No, it’s no use. He hears what we say, he hears everything within these walls. He knows now.”

Selmy looked as if he’d reached the limits to his patience. “Miss Stark, this is no game. If you want to help us clear your name, you will oblige us here. Is that understood?”

Sansa shivered at the severe authority in his tone. How could she say yes? But how to argue no?

Wordlessly she at last nodded, resigned.

 _There it is, then,_ she thought in an odd dreamlike way. _I shall die. I know it._

Sandor never took his eyes from her. How to get her out of there, how?

Selmy outlined the plan: the officers that would line the rafters, the cellar doors, her dressing room. They would follow Sansa after the performance to wherever the madman was waiting for her. “Am I clear, Miss Stark?”

Sandor wanted to rip his face off.

“Yes,” came her faraway reply. She looked like the corpse of herself.

Selmy murmured some finishing instructions to Baelish. He bowed crisply, then left.

“You are free to go, my dear,” Baelish said. His voice was as warm as it always was when speaking to her, but his eyes were as cold as a lizard’s. "Try to get some sleep."

Sansa stood unsteadily. She fidgeted, looking at Tyrion. “I – I know this might not seem appropriate coming from me, sir, but…I am sorry. I am so sorry for what happened to your sister.”

She was so earnest in her awkward benumbed way.

Tyrion firmly believed in her innocence. She was a hunted lamb in a den of lions.

_Cersei._

The image of his beautiful golden sister turned purple and cold in his mind. 

He’d often wondered if he and his sister were more alike than either imagined. Each had a great all-encompassing hunger for unconditional love, acceptance, power. When denied that, they grew bitter and crafty, and took by force what they were not given freely. Each suffered under their father’s thumb – their father, who loved only their mother’s ghost and his remote eldest son.

Tyrion remembered staring at Cersei in awe as a younger child. His sister was the most beautiful, dignified girl in the world, and that made him both proud and shy. But she ruined the illusion with her cold glare, her haughty insults, and he added insult to injury by developing biting sarcasm to meet her barbs.

Yes, they’d been alike. If Tyrion hadn’t killed his mother coming out of her, if Tywin had been a loving father, if others hadn’t used her heart and his as stomping grounds, could they have been brother and sister in truth? 

As it was, their common traits were what in the end separated them, made them enemies. Neither would budge. Neither would make the gesture.

Now the chance was gone forever, and despite his ire and bitterness, Tyrion couldn’t help but feel he’d lost a part of himself.

And the children…what would become of them? Would they leave King’s Landing and stay with Jaime, their -- Tyrion swallowed -- possibly their true father?

Or would they prefer to stay in the city they grew up in? With him?

The poor children.

“Thank you, Miss Stark.” His voice was strained. “I’m sorry, too.”

“Come on, girl.” Sandor touched her arm.

He watched the unusual pair leave ( _what was the name of that old fairytale? Beauty and the Beast?_ ).

Tyrion couldn’t stand staying in the same room with Baelish and Varys right now. No secrets and lies for him at the moment. “Gentlemen, I am going to see to my niece and nephew then drink the night away. If you need me, I won’t be available.” 

Without a backward glance, he left them.

Varys stared into the night outside the office window. Technically it was morning now, though the sky remained an oppressive black.

Baelish’s words whipped out like a lash across the back. “I’d wager you regret rescuing your master now.”

Varys breathed in then smiled gently. “Ah, but I am not the one who convinced him to let a Stark girl audition in the first place, my dear Lord Baelish.”

Baelish simmered silently then laughed shortly. “What’s the saying, Varys? Ah, yes. We’re all fools for love.”

Varys thought to himself that even with his own limited knowledge of love, Baelish had no clue what the emotion really was – beyond loving himself.

 

Sansa ran her hand across the skirt of Jonquil’s village dress that she wore in the first scene. It would be the last time she wore it. It might be the last time she wore anything. She had no idea when Rhaegar would enact his revenge and kill her.

Save for Selmy and his men, the managers, and Sandor, no one knew of the danger tonight. She told Margaery and Olenna that she’d merely been questioned, since Cersei had suspected Sansa all along. Arya had hovered near her all night and into today, only leaving when Sansa entered the dressing room. Sansa was glad that the police wouldn't surround the outside until near the end of the show.

Sansa grabbed her sister's arm before Arya headed to the stables. 

She stared at her younger sister with love swelling in her expression. She hugged Arya to her. She kissed her forehead. “You be good now,” she said in a small voice.

Before Arya could respond, Sansa ran into the dressing room, closing the door behind her.

Now Sansa sat at her vanity, waiting for places. She tried not to think how that was probably the last time she'd ever see her sister, and that she'd never again see her family or Winterfell. _Lady will look after them for me._

She repeated her wolf-dog's name aloud, in an attempt to comfort herself. "Lady...."

Slowly she stood and approached the full-length mirror. She stared into the glass with a cold bravery she was not aware she possessed. “Go on,” she told the mirror. “Go on and do it now if you’re going to. What are you waiting for?”

She watched for any sign, any sign at all. A quirk of the glass, a whisper, anything.

Nothing.

Except for a knock on the door.

She froze for a moment. Heart in her throat, she answered.

Sandor stood there. He was a grim giant from a dark song.

 _Please, please, not in front of him. Please._

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said in a thin voice.

“Don’t care,” he said gruffly, pushing himself in. His muscles kept twitching.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking. About everything. This is no good, little bird. Let’s go. Now. We’ll head down to the stables, grab your sister and Stranger, and then head right to the train station. I’ve got money with me. Come on.”

She couldn’t help her sad smile. “So you finally believe me?”

She ached at the hurt in his eyes. “I don’t know, little bird, I don’t know. But I won’t risk it. Fuck Selmy and the others, they can find out one way or the other without using you as bait.”

She stared at his hunted eyes in his stony face. Barely aware of what she was doing, she reached out to tuck behind his ruined ear one of those locks of hair that always fell over his eyes and burns.

She’d never be this happy again, looking into his face -- and even this happiness was sullied by her melancholic acceptance of the inevitable.

His voice was thick. “Well?”

Another knock on the door. “Places,” a voice called.

Sansa closed her eyes, the spell broken. “No. No running.” She opened her eyes. She stood on her toes and kissed him deeply.

Her hands were on both sides of his face. “Please always remember that I love you.”

She swept past him out the dressing room. She left the man behind her strangled with impotent rage.

 

It was a nuisance that Selmy’s men crowded the rafters, but Rhaegar bypassed them anyhow. He climbed up the ladder he’d installed behind the walls. 

He reached the top, overlooking the stage. He perched unseen on the ledge there.

He clutched his burning chest.

The climb up the opera walls yesterday and this climb now…his chest hurt unbearably from the exertions. He panted.

The pains were getting worse each day.

This was not helped by the heavy sword he carried on him.

He made himself forget the pain as he paced the ledge, listening to the orchestra tune. He fingered the cool steel of the Valyrian sword.

He would wait until the last act, when she extended her hands to the sky begging the Mother for mercy.

He would swoop down, dip the sword in the fire from the torches onstage, and plunge the blade into Nissa Nissa’s heart, as the Hound howled in sorrow.

He would keep Clegane alive. Once Nissa Nissa died, Rhaegar’s transformation into Azor Ahai would be complete; so to fill the gap of the sorrowing Rhaegar Targaryen, why not the burned brother of Gregor Clegane? Rhaegar was forced to wallow in despair after losing those he loved, so why not the Hound? 

He’d often felt a strange kinship to Sandor Clegane. He would watch him with interest as the large man made his rounds about the theater. There was a sad-eyed look behind the Hound’s stoic façade that reminded Rhaegar of his own tragic loss encased behind his black mask.

The irony that Sansa should fall for Rhaegar’s mirror image mocked him.

He turned his attention to the stage. The curtain rose and the chorus sang. 

For a moment, Rhaegar allowed himself to get lost in the music. This would be his last time surveying the opera as its ghost; he would be reborn soon. He would trade his small kingdom for a larger one: the world. 

But let him soak in the grandeur and beauty of the palace he would leave behind. One last time.

She took center stage. She sang.

Rhaegar’s chest burned so terribly he hissed.

_Lyanna Lyanna Lyanna –_

The Rhaegar from before fought with the Phantom in the present. How could he kill the vessel which held the voice of his beloved?

He remembered the day he first heard Lyanna Stark’s voice. He’d been conferring with that fool Pycelle before her first lesson with him, when she stomped into his studio, complaining about the wait. He took in her long wolf face, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, the mane pinned at the side by a blue rose clip. Those gray eyes flashed out dangerously but good-naturedly. Hand on one hip, she announced that enough was enough and she planned to sing regardless if the great Rhaegar Targaryen was ready or not.

Except for a lingering surprise at her spirit and striking looks, Rhaegar did not pay her much mind. It was when she sang that Rhaegar felt his soul bloom awake.

He could not quit her side.

When she died, she took that voice with her, and thus any light in his world. Gregor Clegane took his soul away.

Along with….

_No, he wouldn’t think of them._

He watched Sansa Stark. Here was Lyanna's voice in a body any man would go mad for. As much as he treasured hearing that voice again, he’d found himself intoxicated with Sansa Stark’s beauty and soft expressions almost as much. She was the best of Lyanna and the best of womanhood in general.

She sang now more beautifully than ever before. 

The wicked girl was trying him. Testing his limits.

She sang, she sang, she sang….

It was the end of the third act when he realized he couldn’t do it yet. Her Jonquil was so vulnerable in her frantic torment about the illegitimate child, and what to do with it. She touched him.

No. No death, not yet. Give her one more chance. One more.

He glanced at the new chandelier the opera house hastily installed. He glanced next at the area of the stage near the trapdoor he knew she’d stand by in the last act.

_Yes, one more chance._

 

She was mad, Sandor kept telling himself: assuring himself. She was mad, and nothing was going to happen to her.

Yet each flicker of movement in his field of vision, any cough from the audience had him on edge.

Gods, her voice. How could she sing like that, with everything weighing on her shoulders?

But he’d see her right. The minute the curtain dropped, he’d be by her side, along with Selmy’s men.

The taste of her lips was still on his. He tried not to savor it. The little bird was afraid. She knew not what she wanted. Once she reached home and the safety of her parents and their respectable existence, he’d be but a painful reminder of her lowest time.

Therefore he wouldn’t let her see the tenderness burning in his eyes. Better for her to think him cold and uncaring. Better for him to actually _be_ cold and uncaring. He was before she came into his life, and he could be again. 

She was a sweet little bird, but daft and young. She was a lovely dalliance, nothing more. _So forget about it, Hound. See her safe. Let getting her home be the one good thing you do with your lousy life, then move on. Leave the opera, leave Tywin’s employ, and just fucking…wander the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Be your own man._

_Not hers._

This conviction was harder and harder to keep the more she sang. Even if he ever did get over her, he still knew that voice would remain with him forever.

Still, he valiantly tried to keep her at bay. He looked at anything but her: the props, the set pieces, the audience, the officers.

Until that last act.

Who _couldn’t_ look at her? Her hair streamed down her bare shoulders as she sang out her very soul. She sang with even more power and light than that first thundering night when she brought King’s Landing to their feet.

All mouths were open, gawking.

Her graceful arms were reaching upward. Her eyes were blue pools of ecstasy.

She sang the line that years from now would cause onlookers to shiver when they thought back.

_“…Save my soul from hell I pray!”_

She was endearingly supplicating. She was a lost soul called home. She was -- 

The lights went out and plunged the theater in darkness.

Before Sandor or anyone else had time to react, they came back on.

A hoarse cry escaped Sandor.

Loras and Beric Dondarrion as the Stranger stood gaping onstage, helpless.

Sansa was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line "never be this happy again" is paraphrased from the song "No One Else" from the electropop-opera _Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812_. It's one of the greatest love songs ever in my opinion, and makes me think a lot of SanSan in a distant sort of way.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVXeil3mQ_Q


	22. Chapter 22

Arya barely heard the pandemonium around her. The police whistles, the stunned exclamations of the audience and the cast – all passed her by in her red wave of fear and fury.

All she truly comprehended was Sandor Clegane, going berserk onstage.

“I won’t let you burn her, damn you! I won’t! I won’t!” He yelped at some unseen enemy. He was tearing around the stage, pounding on it, hunting for any trace of where Sansa’d gone. The sounds he was making were like the hellish snarling of a hound mixed with the heavy snorting of a bull.

His face matched.

That’s when she knew he was innocent. He knew something, but he was innocent.

But what good did that knowledge do her now? How could it help Sansa? The Hound was unreachable in his frenzy. 

She finally snapped out of her shocked fog. She leapt down from the ladder rung she’d been watching from. She ran straight into Gendry, who staggered from the collision.

Arya didn’t give him the chance to recover. She grabbed his hand, dragging him after her through the throng of dumbstruck cast members. “Come on!”

He almost tripped over a couple sets of passing feet. “Where? Arya!”

 

Tyrion cornered Selmy by the right wing. The head sergeant was corralling his men, whistling and shouting instructions over the sea of heads before him.

Varys loomed behind Tyrion, silent, silent.

“Selmy!” Tyrion panted. “What’s going on?”

Selmy’s face was grim. “Damned if I know, Mr. Lannister. The girl is simply gone.”

“That is not acceptable,” Tyrion snapped. “You must have some idea” –

“Mr. Lannister, I wish I did. Where is Lord Baelish?”

Tyrion threw his arms up, exasperated. “The minute the lights came up and Sansa was gone, his face went all bilious and he left without a word. I have no clue where the man is.”

Selmy’s frown deepened. “He knows more than he’s letting on, that’s what I say.”

“I agree. Should we track him down, see if he knows where” –

A new voice, harsh with emotion, interrupted. “You know where she is. She told you. The little bird told you, told all of us. She’s below the opera house with _him.”_

They each took in Sandor Clegane’s appearance with surprise.

Where his eyes were a violent dog’s during Sansa’s interrogation, they now seemed to belong to a searing, wild direwolf of old -- gone rabid. 

The only control left in him were his determinedly tight lips, yet they were pulled in so taut they ironically contributed to the picture he made of inhuman rage.

"He's going to burn her. Kill her. We have to hurry!"

 _Gods, if it wasn't for that deep growling voice, he'd sound like a scared little boy,_ Tyrion thought.

Selmy found his voice first. “Mr. Clegane, I am open to all possibilities, but even as strange as these circumstances are, the girl’s story” –

“ _Miss Stark’s_ story is all we have to go on!” Sandor ground out her name through his teeth. He shot a disdainful glare at the various police officers holding back the growing crowd around the stage. “Take this lot down below. Come on. We’ll see” –

“Enough of this!” Varys commanded. Tyrion jumped, looking behind him. He’d never heard Varys so angry before. His fellow manager's expression was harried. 

Varys strode up to the Hound. “Mr. Clegane, I have been down below, several times! There is nothing, absolutely nothing there! There is nothing to this story!”

Sandor was frantic and confused, and thus just as furious. “I” –

 _“Enough!”_ Varys yelled now, red in the face. He actually grabbed the Hound’s arm, pulling him away. “You have been insubordinate far too long. Come with me right now.”

Sandor like Selmy and Tyrion was so disconcerted by Varys's uncharacteristic outburst and his deceptively strong grip that the Hound actually let him lead him away for a couple steps before growling and trying to wrench his arm away.

However, Varys said to him in a low tone the others couldn’t hear, “If you want any chance of seeing your Sansa Stark alive again, come with me now and do as I say.”

 

Arya and Gendry reached the stables. The officers that were stationed there before were gone, ordered to help staunch the spreading mob by Selmy. 

Arya let go of Gendry’s hand and buried herself in some crates in the corner, where surplus storage was kept.

Gendry caught his breath, watching her curiously. “What are you doing?”

She pulled out a couple lanterns, along with some matches, cutlery, and she double-checked her pocket for the slingshot she’d brought with her tonight on a hunch. “I’m going down to the cellars. I’m finding my sister. If Margaery and Madame Olenna ask, tell them I’m staying in the dormitories with Ygritte and the other girls until I hear word about Sansa.”

“No,” he replied. Arya fumed, sure he was about to object to the whole operation. “I’m going with you.”

She looked at him. 

His blue eyes were very bright, and he looked so determined and protective all of a sudden. All confusion and awkwardness was gone.

Even in the midst of her fear for her sister, Arya managed a conspiratorial smile.

They turned at a high whistle and a great rumbling sound approaching. 

Jaunty Ygritte, dressed in breeches, stormed into the stables with a mob of dancers, singers, and stagehands behind her. They’d bypassed the police.

The redhead smiled wickedly. “Saw you two headin’ this way. Charging down to root out the Phantom and save the Cap’n, are ya? Right. We’ll be joining you then.”

She put her hands on her hips, motioning to the rest behind her.

Arya stared open-mouthed. Simply everyone was there. Margaery, Loras, Bethany, Mya, Myranda….

Arya smiled again.

 

Tyrion was in his office now, pacing in front of Selmy and a few of his officers. Samwell Tarly was there as well, thumbing through a thick medical book.

Tyrion tossed back a glass of brandy. 

What a hell of a week. Father would be down in a day or two for Cersei’s funeral, and Tyrion had to adjust to that _and_ two grief-stricken children in his home. He loved his niece and nephew, but Tyrion of all people as their guardian? He didn’t know what would happen. Their Uncle Stannis the prime minister certainly had the means to look after them but was a cold fish, and Renly and Loras…they were young and frivolous. Not to mention the attention that would bring to their little set-up. 

And Jaime. Tyrion hadn’t gotten a reply to the telegram he sent. How would Jaime react to Cersei’s death?

Now on top of everything else, this. He shook his head. “Varys is lying,” he said finally. “I can just tell. He’s involved somehow. Otherwise, he’d be back by now.”

He glanced sharply at Selmy. “I think there might be something to the Stark girl’s story after all.”

“But it all sounds so fantastic,” Selmy insisted. “Rhaegar Targaryen, alive and living in the opera sewers….”

Sam Tarly cleared his throat, finger on a passage in his book. “After she fainted the night of her debut, I looked Miss Stark over, as you know. I remember that something about her seemed rather strange. She was in this sort of trance-like state, and her brow kept furrowing. I put it down to exhaustion at the time, but after everything that’s happened, I’ve looked up the symptoms and it sounds almost like…well, like an ancient form of hypnosis most commonly used by Braavosi magicians back in the day. Usually as a form of street entertainment, flashing a mirror at passersby a certain way. While these acts would seem innocent enough at the time -- the people targeted were simply persuaded to cluck like chickens or kiss someone for the crowd's amusement -- there were some reports magicians were able to control these people from their homes, the magicians' voices ringing in the victims' heads.”

The room fell silent.

Tyrion and Selmy remembered the part the mirror in Sansa’s dressing room played in her tale.

Tyrion spoke quietly. “Well, even if it isn’t Rhaegar Targaryen, someone must be swaying the young girl. Someone was using that mirror on her.” His look darkened as he approached Selmy. “I want you to take your men down to the cellars. As the only manager available at the moment, you have my full cooperation and approval.”

Selmy buried his chin into his chest, studying Tyrion. “I have no objection,” he relented. He turned to his officers. “Men? Get in formation. Gather the rest of the troop and tell them to report to the first cellar. We’re heading down.”

 

Sandor vibrated with rage as Varys whisked him down the hall. “So you know where she is? You knew all along she was telling the truth?”

“Yes,” was Varys’s simple answer.

Sandor glared at him, but Varys was unfazed, staring ahead.

The stagehand wanted to throttle that fat neck. His head pounded. His fear for her was so intense he could scarcely breathe or think clearly.

“Why didn’t you say anything until now?”

Varys sighed. “A misplaced sense of loyalty, I suppose.” He smirked and shook his head. “No. Not that. I won’t lie anymore. Self-preservation.”

“The fuck do you mean? I ought to gut you like a pig,” Sandor said in a low voice thick with menace.

Varys merely quirked an eyebrow. “Do that, and you’ll never find Miss Stark.” He shot a knowing look at him. “You’re in love with the girl, are you not?”

By instinct, he inwardly recoiled, defensive. “What the hells does that matter?”

“We’re about to take a very strange journey, Clegane. One that could potentially end in death. I’m just wondering how far you’re willing to go. Are you ready to possibly die for this girl?”

Sandor swallowed.

He wouldn’t say it, but he could imagine no worthier fate.

“Aye,” he said at last, reluctantly.

Varys nodded briefly. “Good.”

“And what of you, Spider? Why are you taking the risk? What, do you love the girl, too?”

He smiled gently. “No, my friend. I do not love the girl.”

“I ain’t your friend. If you don’t love her, then why” –

“Let’s just say I’ve had a dark night of the soul. I’ve come to realize I’ve been a fool. Quite the fool. What I thought was promised me turned out to be nothing but dust. Call it justice, call it revenge. Whatever you like.” He tilted his head. “And although I am not in love with Miss Stark, I do appreciate the fact she’s one of the few genuinely good people I’ve met in a long time. Goodness has gotten a bad reputation lately. It’s considered naïve and insipid. Far more fashionable to be cynical and clever, such as myself. But if I can help her where I’ve otherwise failed innocents like her, well…this whole charade won’t have been a total fiasco.”

Sandor scowled. He looked around. They were in one of the more remote corridors normally used only by deliverymen from the docks. It was currently empty save for the two of them. “Where are you taking us?”

“Her dressing room.”

“But this is the long way! We’re wasting valuable time!”

“Ah, it’s longer, but there are no people here. Would you rather try to wade through the throng of panicked citizens? Bring attention to our actions?”

Sandor merely grumbled low in his throat. Although Varys moved quickly and with purpose, Sandor was nonetheless put off by his blank expression, his even tone of voice. “What the fuck all do you know about this anyhow? I know you were his valet. What else have you done for him?”

Varys inhaled deeply, then spoke. “His father Aerys Targaryen hired me to work for him after Rhaegar left for the opera house. Spy on him for the old man, in other words. In exchange, he promised to help me locate someone who took something from me a long time ago.” His eyes were vaguely hooded. “I had extensive experience with spy work abroad, and a little bit here when Aerys hired me. However, he knew I needed someone with influence to finally track down whom I sought. So I accepted his terms. I soon established a network of spies here in the opera house. I spent a couple years with his family, then came Lyanna. After a time, I discovered his dalliance with her.” He tilted his head again, contemplative. “I don’t know that he ever very deeply loved Lyanna the girl. It was her voice, always her voice that obsessed him.”

They rounded the corner into a narrow passage-way. “I grew close to the family. I was as faithful to Rhaegar as his father allowed; not that I liked Rhaegar himself overmuch. I admired him, certainly. He treated me decently and was rarely unkind to anyone. He was a genius, that’s undeniable. But there was an unworldly coldness and distance there, beneath the chivalric charm. Even then. I was much fonder of his wife, his children. Elia Martell was the best of women. Gentle, witty, intelligent. Sickly, but strong. Spiritually strong. I was especially fond of little Rhaenys. When she died, I made sure her cat was taken care of…but I’m getting ahead of myself. Ever dutiful to my post, I sent word to Aerys about his son's affair with Lyanna Stark. The old gentleman by this time was quite mad, madder than I realized. He caused a ruckus about the affair, which made word get out. Soon the papers got wind of it, and Elia had it out with Rhaegar. She moved the children to a hotel nearby.

“And of course, Baratheon heard. Elia came to me at the theater with the children, asking if it was true Baratheon arrived to challenge Rhaegar. I couldn’t lie to the sweet lady. I desperately wish now that I had. She was determined her children not be left fatherless. She left to confront him and try bringing him to his senses. I was preparing afternoon tea in Rhaegar’s office when I first smelled smoke….”

He coughed softly. Sandor suddenly got the impression he was leaving something out.

“I hurried to the amphitheater. I saw your brother advancing on Rhaegar. I knew that in the direction they were going they could only be heading down.”

Another pause, and Sandor wondered just how much Varys was omitting from this retelling.

“I waited until everyone was out of the opera house. Then following a hunch, I headed down to the sewers. I’d taken that route often to meet with my spies, my ‘little birds’.” He laughed again. “Isn’t it odd that’s what you call Miss Stark?”

“Go on,” Sandor hissed.

“Yes. Well, I found Rhaegar, passed out after dousing his face in the lake. He was halfway in the water, at risk of drowning. I knew of the cells nearby and took him to his present lair. I wasn’t sure if he’d live. His scars, his injuries, were terrible indeed. But I nursed him back to health. I blamed myself, you see. If I hadn’t told his father about Lyanna, if I hadn’t told Elia the truth about Baratheon, well…” he spread his hand out as if grasping at an invisible possibility, then let it fall flat at his side, defeated. He sighed again. “I made him his mask. I brought him Balerion the cat. I brought him all his books, and ordered him more, from all my different sources. I brought him food and drink, too, of course.

“But the books! That was my next mistake. I thought he’d merely distract himself with the ancient lines, but slowly it became clear all that happened to him warped his mind. He became obsessed with the prophecies he read in the antique lore I ordered overseas. In his madness, he believed himself part of something bigger. Something more than human.

“This wasn’t helped by Baelish. Petyr seized the opportunity presented by the Scandal. He loaned Lannister and the other board members the money to rebuild the opera house. As part of his payment, he took over as owner. Like me, he hired his own spies. They followed me, followed me to Rhaegar. One day he presented himself to Rhaegar. He took advantage of the man’s lunacy. ‘You want to be a savior,’ Baelish told him. ‘Try being a phantom first.’ The message was clear: help Baelish run the opera house, commit certain acts for him, and Baelish would keep his secret and finance him. The first favor Rhaegar did for Baelish? Kill the two children that had led Baelish there, so that only he, Rhaegar, and I knew of the situation. I was promoted to manager.”

Varys’s voice was laced with repugnance. “As you see, Baelish is the Phantom after all, in a way. He gave birth to him, anyhow.”

He was quiet for a painful moment.

“This only broke Rhaegar further. His ego grew, his madness grew.” Varys laughed bitterly. “He even convinced me to play along with everything by promising to follow through on his father’s word to me. I had by now confessed everything to Rhaegar. Aerys was dead, and I had thought it best to confess my part in Rhaegar’s tragedy and then leave. Instead, Rhaeger lifted his hand like Baelor the Blessed and said, ‘I pardon you. I will help you find the one you seek so long as you stay and help protect me here.’”

Varys closed his eyes, deeply ashamed. “That I believed him all these years stuns me now. He played me as Baelish played him. He never had any intention of following through. How could he? What could he do, wretch that he was, that I could not? But I was blinded by a hope I thought I was too wise to succumb to. I let myself believe.”

He trailed off.

Sandor’s eyes were burning. No one outside of Sansa and recently Olenna Tyrell had spoken so long and frankly to the opera hound. “Do you think she’s dead?” He asked at last. His throat was dry.

“No, I don’t think so,” Varys said after a moment. “Rhaegar has become nothing if not theatrical, so if he were to kill her, it would be in front of an audience. In front of you.”

Sandor felt relief and fury in equal turns.

“Plus,” Varys added, voice soft, “She sang so much like her aunt tonight, but with even more light and beauty than she. I’m sure she touched him, in a way. I’d wager he’s giving her one more chance. But I don’t know for how long.”

Sandor nodded wordlessly, gnawing the inside of his cheek.

_He has to be right. He has to. I’d feel it if she were…if she were dead. I would._

They reached Sansa’s door. Varys unlocked it and they entered.

“Oh, here,” Varys said as if in an afterthought. He took out of the deep pockets of his evening coat two pistols. “Carry this on you. And raise your hand” –

“To the level of my eyes, I know.” Sandor had seen more than once what the Phantom’s lasso could do. He accepted the pistol and followed Varys to the mirror.

"We'll go the way he first took her. He stole her through the trapdoor onstage this time, so we won't run into him until we're ready."

“Is there a button or something?” Sandor asked, pressing onto the glass. “I had a feeling something was going on back there the first night she disappeared, but for the life of me I couldn’t” –

He watched perturbed as Varys raised and moved his hand back and forth, until –

The mirror slowly turned, revealing the blackness behind.

“Magic,” Varys said venomously. “He always uses the old magic now. I _hate_ magic.”

Sandor stood and stared.

It all suddenly came home to him, breaking his heart. Everything. Everything the girl had said was true. He’d doubted her sanity. She had indeed been behind that mirror, lost and confused, hypnotized by a madman, and _no one, not even he would believe her._

_Oh, Sansa…._

He’d make it up to her, he’d find her, he’d see her safe, take her away, tuck her into his arms and carry her all the way back to Winterfell on Stranger’s back if need be.

He cocked the gun, examining it. “We ready?” He asked roughly.

_“I certainly am.”_

Both Sandor and Varys whipped around to the speaker behind them. They’d been so engrossed they hadn’t heard the young man enter.

He was dressed in a military uniform, and looked at them with steady gray eyes full of suppressed anxiety. 

Before they could speak, he added, “If it is Sansa Stark you are pursuing, I believe I more than anyone have the right to ensure her safety.”

Sandor took in his handsome looks, his youth. The dark hair, the wintry eyes. He had the look of the North. 

Alongside Sandor’s fear for Sansa was a raging insecure jealousy. _Some sweetheart from back home she left behind…_

“Who are you?” He barked at the stranger.

The soldier gave Sandor a strict one-over. “Jon Snow,” he answered. “Her brother.”

Sandor instantly relaxed. _The bastard._

“I just arrived, having received my leave a few days ago. I’ve come to collect her and Arya, my youngest sister. Some hysterical young ballerinas outside babbled something about Sansa gone missing?”

He was a composed young man, but his concern was evident in his clipped tone. 

Varys, meanwhile, had gone white the moment Jon said his name. The manager stared at him with eyes wide and sparkling. “Yes…the boy,” he whispered. His gaze was fathomless. “The happenstance…it almost makes me believe in prophecy myself. This might be the last chance to truly reach him.” He took hold of Jon’s arm. His eyes burned into him. “Come, Jon Snow. It is time you learn where you truly come from.”


	23. Chapter 23

“The Prince and the Sword! You must choose between the Prince and the Sword! Are you to carry Azor Ahai reborn, or forge Lightbringer? You must decide! Will I play a wedding march, or a requiem mass? The choice is yours!”

Sansa turned away.

How many times since she’d woken from unconsciousness had he snarled those words at her?

Her head ached so.

The second she’d fallen into his arms beneath the trapdoor, he’d struck her out with the hilt of the sword he’d originally meant to kill her with.

She sat huddled on the floor across from his pipe organ, clutching her knees to her chest as he raved in front of her.

He lovingly caressed the sword now. She grew faintly queasy when she saw the speck of her own blood on the golden hilt.

“My friend procured this for me. I don’t know who he had to bribe. The earliest known relic of my ancestors. True, true Valyrian steel, from before the Doom. But it must know its fate, my dear.”

 _What in the hells is he on about_ , Sansa thought bitterly. She felt gutted through and through. She couldn’t summon anymore sympathy for his madness.

He gracefully swooped down and laid the sword in front of her. Next to it was a crown forged of iron, with thorns twisting into dragons’ mouths.

“The Prince and the Sword. Which shall it be? Pick up the crown, and you choose the prince; I will spare your life and together we will bring the prince that was promised into the world. Choose the sword and embrace the fate of Nissa Nissa. The choice is yours, madame.”

More than at his words, she shivered at the sick light in his purple eyes.

How ironic that she was in her dungeon shift.

Her shock and fear collided until she felt almost nothing. She was weary and tired. No matter what she chose tonight, she’d never see her family again. She’d never again know fresh air, sunlight, or feel Lady’s fur beneath her fingers.

She’d never see a hulking man with eyes so sad and deep they took her breath away. Never hear that low warm voice say words he’d never say anyway. 

What did it matter what she chose?

_Life. Choose life. While you live, there’s always hope. Hope of rescue or escape. Enduring him will be painful and terrible, but better than never even trying for freedom._

“Fine, Rhaegar,” she said at last in what she hoped was a cold, steady voice. “I choose” –

“Ah!” He interrupted, his finger high in the air. He snickered. “Not yet.”

“Why?” She snapped.

“Because, my dear, I do not trust you. Your judgment is weak and foolish. Your betrayal of me is evidence of that.” His tone darkened. “We must wait, wait until sunrise. You will know your heart better by then.”

She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t speak.

He’d never seen her so much like a child. He could just make out the large bluish bruise at the crown of her head, buried mostly beneath her hair. She was pale and her cheeks were stained with tears that dried the more her emotions hardened.

Something in him softened in response. “Child,” he began. She shuddered at the Angel coming back into his voice, but she felt no yearning for that false specter now. She wanted him away from her.

“Child, you’ve forced my hand, you realize?” He sighed. “I should have known you’d possess some of your aunt’s wayward spirit in you. She, too, tried to leave me at the end. She loved me, but she didn’t want…didn’t want….” His head hanged low. “She didn’t want what happened to happen.”

He collapsed on his bench. “That is why I want us to wait. You are a sweet young thing, my darling, and I know your natural gentleness will make you more amenable than your aunt. You shall see. Just wait, and think it over. Here, I’ll throw my voice again! I'll imitate Florian, Jonquil, Stranger, every member of the show!” He slapped his knees, affecting jocularity. “I’ll remind you what fun you’ll have with me!” A strained note of desperation entered his voice.

Her head shot up as a high sharp key suddenly came down on the pipe organ, seemingly by itself. _Another little magic trick of his?_

But no, for his hand clapping happily before was now curling into a tight fist.

Another black snicker.

“It would appear a mockingbird’s come calling. I believe it is time I silence his beak once and for all.” 

Rhaegar stood and bowed, with what Sansa couldn’t tell was sarcastic gallantry or not. “I will return shortly, my dear.”

 

Littlefinger impatiently yanked the small lever hidden behind the stone panel again. He stood at the lake’s edge.

He was through being made a fool of.

How many months had he stood idly by as Rhaegar openly drooled all over his, _Petyr’s_ , mark?

They’d had a deal, the two of them.

The instant he received Sansa’s letter, a beautiful plan formulated in Petyr’s mind.

He could tell by the careful words she chose in her note that she was not only a genteel young lady, but a naïve one at that.

Once he finished reading, he hurried down here as he did tonight, addressing the Phantom who stood sullen and speechless as always upon his boat by the bank.

“Let her come, Rhaegar. I will see to it you will finally get your proper revenge on Ned Stark through his daughter. I know you hate the man for allowing Baratheon to hunt you down, so let’s humiliate him together. We will both get what we want: the proud Stark name raked through the mud. I promise, by the time I'm done with her the girl will be little more than a common whore in one of my establishments.”

He waited breathlessly for his answer. Rhaegar could be quite temperamental, particularly where the past was concerned. He’d taken his title of ‘Opera Ghost’ too much to heart. He knew this theater too well, and was able to oversee and command things that Petyr would rather he didn’t.

Still, better for now to keep him happy.

A silent nod from Rhaegar was his answer.

Petyr had eagerly awaited her arrival in his office. He’d been staring at a miniature he kept of Cat when the Hound announced her.

Then Petyr saw her.

The blue eyes, the auburn hair, the dignified but youthful beauty of his Cat.

But she _was_ naïve, unlike Cat. That he could tell right away.

Naïve, innocent. _Pliable_. Yes, what Cat never was.

She was Cat and she wasn’t Cat, all in just the right ways.

Of course, she would never _be_ Cat. No one could. No one had just that right regal light in their eyes, that flash of superiority in the high cheekbones and arch smile. 

How he’d coveted her, his darling Catelyn. She was the prize he worked toward all these years. Her perfect love alone would make up for the toil, for the sneering nickname her brother gave him, the humiliation at the hands of Brandon Stark, of everyone.

But as the years crawled by, it became clear to Petyr she’d convinced herself that she truly loved honor-bound, monotonous Ned Stark. 

She – she might never be his.

The thought left a gaping wound that cried for justice.

If he couldn’t have her love, he’d have her downfall. Why not at the hands of her pretty daughter?

Staring at Sansa Stark in his office that first day, however, he knew he could not turn her into a mere whore. No, she would be his protege -- and any protege of his deserved far more respect than a worker in one of his brothels.

A pliable, meek version of Cat, that's what she was. He could mold this one, make her truly his, and parade her in front of the proud Eddard and Catelyn Stark. He would see the righteous pain in Cat’s cool blue eyes as he revealed her daughter his mistress.

_Let her feel what I’ve felt. Let her see her beloved taken away by another, just as I did, so many years ago._

Yet before he could even begin to enact his plan, he saw the Tully steel enter Sansa’s spine as he proposed his house for her to live in.

She didn’t like him. She – she looked at him as her mother had when he tried – tried so hard -- 

His heart froze again, but his determination only deepened.

Before he could surmount the obstacle of her distaste for him, _he_ began his own tutelage of her.

Petyr’d been almost saint-like in his patience.

At first he thought the similarity in her voice to Lyanna’s would only help his cause. Surely Targaryen wasn’t so mad as to really think she was Lyanna reincarnated, certainly! Surely he could convince Rhaegar to instead join him in his efforts. He could convince Rhaegar that Sansa was far more useful as a tool to humiliate her family than to groom as a replacement Lyanna Stark. Hells, aside from their voices, Lyanna and Sansa had nothing in common!

Tonight, of course, was the last straw. He’d stolen her right from under Petyr’s nose. And that Petyr could not have.

The swift way the Phantom destroyed the opera house's reputation that Petyr proudly cultivated all these years also urged the impresario to take action. People were laughing at him. Petyr knew it.

Thus, he determined to confront Rhaegar with the rage he'd stored away all these years.

He took the passage-way hidden behind the sliding walls in his office. He arrived here before what sounded like a mob several stories above him neared.

As he waited impatiently by the shore of the lake, he noticed that Rhaegar’s boat was moored at the bank. This was odd. But then Petyr realized…yes, of course! Rhaegar steered the boat here to watch the performance, but took Sansa down using the trapdoor beneath the stage…through the tunnels that bypassed the lake. He hadn't needed to row back.

Petyr tired of waiting. If Rhaegar would not meet with him, he would meet with Rhaegar.

He hopped into the boat.

Never an athletic man, he wobbled uncertainly a bit. He grabbed hold of the oar and, holding his breath, he cast off.

As he steered uneasily, he told himself he’d appear like Sansa’s knight in shining armor. The poor empty-headed frightened thing would be so glad to see him, to see anyone. He’d bring Rhaegar up short, demand he release her or else he’d tell the police. Rhaegar would capitulate, in the end. Where would he be without Petyr? He couldn’t carry on as he was without him. Varys, Varys was tiring of the charade. How long until the manager cracked? 

Petyr would make Rhaegar see reason. He always did. He –

The boat jostled to a halt. Petyr almost fell. He frowned. He plunged the oar into the water. He felt nothing directly underneath.

How could he be stuck, dammit? It was almost like he was caught on a reef or something, but impossible in this man-made lake underground.

Too late he saw the reed-like pipe sticking out of the water, serving as a means to breathe –

The boat overturned.

At first all Petyr saw underwater through his panic were undulating shades of black. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream.

As the water filled his lungs and he waved his arms around frantically, the last image accompanying him to his watery grave were two wide purple eyes full of amused malice, the blackened lips tight around the pipe that shot above the surface. Rhaegar’s hands squeezed around Petyr’s windpipe, pushing him down into blackness, into nothingness.

The lake was still and placid above.

Once he was sure Petyr was dead, Rhaegar emerged, righting his boat and climbing aboard.

As he stood wringing water from his coattails, he said to himself, “That was a long time coming.”

He would not miss the opera owner’s sniveling air of condescension. Yes, Baelish’s death was inevitable. He was a symbol of the worst of Rhaegar’s life here: the corruption and the lies. To make himself pure enough for whatever awaited him – the fate of Azor Ahai or as the carrier of his seed – he must rid himself once and for all of that visual reminder of his dark fate here.

He looked upward with surprising nonchalance as the mob’s voices and steps grew nearer.

Singing in Valryian, he rowed to the bank. He tripped out and pulled open the slat next to the panel Petyr had used. He pulled down the larger lever within.

“That should slow them all down for a while,” he said as he stepped into his boat. He stopped short and massaged his chest again. The burning pain was so intense....

 

Arya wondered vaguely if she should at all be concerned about any kind of order. She looked at the crowd around her, flinching as someone stumbled and almost side-swiped her with a torch. 

Everyone was yelling over everyone else. Everyone was pushing everyone else. She tried getting Ygritte’s attention at least, but the dancer was busy rousing another chorus of some Northern fight song even Arya had never heard.

She cried out as someone’s elbow thrust into her temple. She almost stumbled onto the ground but was caught by Gendry.

“You all right?” He asked.

She stared grateful into his concerned eyes. In a sea of chaos, he was an oasis of sanity.

He smiled reassuringly as she squeezed his hand.

She didn’t have time to identify the warm, fluttering feeling squeezing her chest as she looked at him, but she knew she liked it. Made her happy.

She had no clue how far down below they were. They were marching down an endless flight of steps, the air growing closer and closer. Darkness and cobwebs were all she could see between the drunk bodies full of blood lust.

She sniffed the air. It was cooler all of a sudden, moister. That must mean something….

“Look out!”

Gendry pulled her back just in time, shrieks behind him.

A long portcullis came crashing down from the ceiling, blocking the rest of the way completely.

Mouth hanging open in shock, Arya knocked on the bars.

Iron.

Gendry thought he’d never seen someone resemble a wild animal so much as Arya Stark now, roaring in anger and kicking the bars.

Her feelings were shared by those behind her. “What the hells is this?” “That fucking blighter!” “What is it?” “We’re in a fucking dungeon!”

“Arya!” Gendry reached out for her as she was swept up by a wave of hysterical bodies throwing themselves against the gate.

“Oof!” Arya cried, feeling the cold sting of the iron against her. The crowd pressing her there rattled the bars. She realized through the pain that the bars were old and rusted. It was maybe possible to break through. However, the haphazard way the mob was going about it was all wrong.

She took a deep breath. _Come on, your sister sings loud enough so that the audience hears all the way in the back row. Same with your aunt. You must have some of their lung power, give it a try!_

“STOP!”

While she didn’t reach every cursing voice in the back of the mob, those in her immediate vicinity were surprised enough by the tiny figure with the loud voice to give her their attention.

She seized the opportunity. “Look, we can’t get it down this way. We need to send people back. There are those big pillars for the dungeon scene. If we can get those down here, we can use them to knock this down.” 

She’d seen pictures of ancient battles in books Old Nan read to them, of castle sieges and the like. The thought of taking part in similar activities would have ordinarily set her blood aflame, but her mounting fear for Sansa only made her desperately impatient. “We need to hurry!”

“She’s right!” Gendry called out, raising his own voice.

“Leave it to me,” a new voice suddenly called, pushing his way through.

The mob turned to see the gray head of Barristan Selmy among them. “I’ve just sent my deputy back. We shouldn’t have too long to wait.”

 

Sandor hoped for many reasons they would reach the lair quickly, not least of which was that if he wasn’t allowed to kill someone soon, the fat bald head of Varys in front of him would make the top of his list.

The minute Snow entered the scene, Varys hurriedly shoved the lantern in Sandor’s hands and told him without sparing him a glance, “Walk behind us, Clegane, and keep an eye out. What I have for Mr. Snow’s ears I can’t reveal to you until we reach the lair. Come, Jon Snow.”

Once again, Sandor was relegated to nothing more than the Hound at heel. He followed dutifully behind, steaming.

Varys spoke to Snow in a hushed voice, reminding Sandor more than ever of a fly buzzing in the distance. 

According to Varys, this route was the same taken by Sansa and Rhaegar the night the chandelier fell.

This spiraling staircase…he remembered her describing its narrow steps, the endless descent. Had she struggled more than she’d let on? Had he been rougher with her than she led Sandor to believe?

Sansa, his Sansa down here with a madman forcing her every step.  
   
Sansa down there now, possibly facing death.

He swallowed his groan. 

He tried not to, but he imagined her heartbreak when she realized her faithful hound didn't believe her story. He remembered her sad resignation on the roof. He remembered her panic in the office learning of Cersei’s death and realizing that no one believed her tale even then.

He remembered the way she kissed him in her dressing room. _Please always remember that I love you._

Her voice was steady but her hands had shaken.

His frightened fighting bird.

_Damn me. Damn me to all Seven Hells._

He’d never expected at this point in his life to fall so irrevocably for a mere slip of a girl. But that girl…that girl.

He could somehow sense her fear, her despair. This gave him hope, oddly enough. If he could sense her, that meant she lived.

He did not question this notion. He’d always been drawn to her, connected to her. From the very first. 

He would be to the very last. He’d save her, and then –

And then –

Well, fuck, he didn’t know. But he did know that if they were to end things again, it would be up to her, not him. He’d not let her go by his own choice this time.  
   
He almost ran straight into Snow.

The younger man leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. He held onto the sides seemingly for support.

“You all right?” Sandor asked gruffly, concerned. Was the air down here making him faint? He couldn’t let down Sansa _and_ her brother. Fuck, that would be too much even for him.

“Snow!” He shook his shoulder and peered into his face.

There was no suffocation or physical exhaustion in his expression. Heartbreak, disbelief, melancholy, and shock all swirled in the darkness of his black-gray eyes. 

The pale young man was a far cry from the upright formal soldier from the dressing room.

Sandor shot an accusing glare at Varys. “What did you tell him?”

The manager only studied Jon with distant sympathy. “I told him what I must.” He took hold of the bastard’s arm, squeezing it, willing his determination to bleed into Jon. “Come. You must be strong for your” – he sighed, cutting himself off. “For Miss Stark.”

Jon seemed to come slowly round. He squinted at the man before him, as if making him out through a heavy fog.

At last he nodded slowly. 

He coughed, then straightened himself, tugging at his jacket. “Yes,” he repeated expressionless, almost like a clockwork man. Yet Sandor could see the steady bravery of the wolf center him. “For Sansa.”

Sandor shook his head, confused and anxious – two feelings he was now closely acquainted with and hated almost worse than his ever-present fear of Gregor and the past. “Well, let’s get on with it then.”

Uncaring of Varys’s instructions, Sandor charged ahead of them, trudging onward.

They were right behind him.

Until an iron gate came down just behind Sandor, separating him from the two men.

He whipped around. “The fuck?”

Varys’s shoulders slumped the moment he realized what happened. “Of course he would take this precaution. Of course.”

Sandor growled, punching the iron. “What do you mean?”

“This used to be a citadel in the middle ages, remember. Various paranoid Targaryen kings feared the probability of an enraged populous storming the dungeons to free heroic political prisoners. Thus one of those mad kings installed sundry gates in case of such an attack. Pull a lever by the lake – which was just a vast hallway then -- and these gates all come down, trapping the mob until the proper authorities can gather and take care of them.” Absently testing the old joints of the iron bars, he mused, “To think centuries later, a Targaryen descendant should discover the lever and use it for his own gain.”

Sandor saw Jon Snow shiver and look away, face miserable.

“What now?” The young man asked softly.

Varys addressed Sandor. “There is another way for us to go that the gate doesn’t block, but we’ll have to retrace our steps a bit. Should still get us there shortly before the mob above us, but either way it’s an unwanted delay. You, Clegane. You can still make it to the lake before us. Just keep going straight. You can swim?”

“Aye.”

“Good. My guess is he took the boat with him this time. It’s not a long journey and the water's not terribly deep, but the darkness is pervaisive, so be careful. Keep to the walls, and you’ll make it there. Your pistol, though…the water I think will ruin it….”

The Hound’s eyes gleamed hellishly in the lantern light. “I won’t need no pistol when I see him.”

“Don’t do anything stupid in a wrong-headed attempt to play the hero. That won’t help our Miss Stark in the long run. Remember when you get there: _your hand at the level of your eyes_. Always.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you've somehow survived this fandom without learning the details of the notorious R + L = J theory, turn back now if you want to stay unspoiled!

Once Rhaegar left, Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated. Her head still ached. Taking a deep breath and holding onto the leg of a nearby chair, she at last succeeded in hoisting herself up on her feet.

She gripped the chair tightly as she fought dizziness.

She had to focus.

She looked around the lair for anything, anything. The sword on the floor and the ones that lined the walls were too big and cumbersome; there was no place she could conceal them. _He must have a kitchen. Surely there are smaller knives there that I could hide on me. Get him close and then_ \--

She swayed again, this time from nausea at the thought of killing someone.

_Maybe I can just injure him, disarm him until I can get away._

Stumbling, she headed toward the lair's small hallway. After searching fruitlessly for a few minutes, she at last found some sort of pantry and eagerly rifled through the boxes and cupboards inside.

"Nothing, nothing!" She murmured aloud, losing patience.

Knowing him, he probably predicted she'd make such an attempt and so removed all smaller weapons. But where would he hide them...?

Sansa straightened and looked behind her at the wide wall with a deep red curtain covering it.

Behind the wall was his library.

Below the library was that isolated chamber he always kept hidden from her.

_Where else would he stow away forbidden objects? In there!_

She hurried to the pipe organ. Hanging on a peg at the side was a silk pouch.

She quickly searched the keys inside. She remembered the one to the library was a rusted brown color and smaller than the rest.

There -- she held it in her palm.

Biting her lip, she craned her neck and squinted her eyes, trying to see past the dark beyond the portcullis.

There was no sound, no sign of him.

She wished she could stop shivering.

Not giving herself time to think, she ran to the wall and stabbed the key into the lock. Turning it, she entered the library.

Leaving the wall open afforded her enough light to find a torch and head to the trapdoor located at the center of the room, hidden underneath a Lyseni rug. Unlike her first time here, she did not stop to gape at the endless shelves of books lined to the tip of the ceiling.

She knelt down and pulled off the rug and tugged desperately at the trapdoor, coughing at the dust she upset. "Come on, come on!" She urged.

At last it gave. She smiled ecstatically. She prepared to climb down into the darkness --

A slender hand seized her arm and yanked her out, causing her to scream and release the torch, which went out immediately.

She could just make out Rhaegar's burning indigo eyes in the darkness.

 

Sandor's hopes raised once he detected the blue light against the walls Sansa had spoken of. He hurried his pace and felt a cold triumph. He'd reached the lake.

He forced himself to dispassionately study the terrain before him. It was dismally dark down here, but the blue light still cast against the walls, silhouetting the far off cells Varys mentioned.

Beyond them was Sansa, Sansa.

He hastily unbuttoned his vest and let it fall to the ground. He removed his thick boots then rolled up his slacks to his knees.

He ignored the irate, far off cries of the mob above him. From the sounds of it, they too were trapped behind the iron gates.

Trapped like her.

_The little wounded bird beating her clipped wings against the monster's cage._

He would have laughed at himself for his uncharacteristically romantic imagery had it not been so painful, and if he allowed any emotion besides determination to rescue her penetrate him now.

The silly fair maiden had succeeded in molding him into her damned knight in shining armor, but he couldn't think of that now. He couldn't think of anything but plunging into the dark waters, his hand against the wall --

One other emotion raced unwillingly into his breast: panic as he collided with a bobbing body.

Sandor's head was still above the water. He could just make out from the blue light the dark head face down in the waves.

He yanked the head by the hair and his breath stopped as he recognized through the wet bloat of drowned death the features of his employer, Lord Petyr Baelish.

And despite himself, a harsh laugh escaped him.

With a wolfish, malicious grin, he addressed whom he sought as his eyes scanned the darkness around him. "You can't scare _me_ off, Phantom bastard." He removed a dagger from a holster secured to his waist. "Just come and try it," he growled.

Snickering again, he dove into the waters once more and resumed his pursuit, uncaring of Petyr's body behind him.  
________________________________________  
"Little sneak!" Rhaegar hissed.

He pulled Sansa out of the library and threw her on the floor near his pipe organ again.

"Must you deceive me at every turn?"

She shuddered again, unwillingly repulsed by his appearance.

He'd been underwater, that much was clear. He was soaking wet from head to toe. Because of his descent into the lake, he'd taken off his mask. 

The water pouring down his skull-like face made it look eerily like he was melting all over again.

He saw her wince and turn away.

Heartbreak stole into his rage. "Damn you, damn you."

Sansa unwillingly felt a stab at his low, anguished tone. She forced herself to look him over again.

"What have you done?"

He laughed shortly. "How quickly the little lady tries to take the spotlight off her by changing the subject! If you must know, my dear, I have clipped the mockingbird's wings for good."

She frowned, confused. "Mockingbird?" Her face whitened as she remembered some crew member or another referring to Lord Baelish that way -- "No."

"Yes. And one day you'll thank me for it. But now, madame, you must answer for your actions." He barked his words out in a clipped voice. "What were you doing trying to sneak into the secret parts of my domain? Are you that curious?"

Frightened by the electric violence in his voice, she hastened to play her actions off as humorous. "Yes, it was...woman's curiosity!" She attempted a winning smile. She could charm him. She knew she could.

His gravelly muttering was proof he did not buy her front. "You were trying to escape. That's all."

"Why should I? I know that's impossible."

"Yes, you should! You should know that!"

He saw her wince again at his harsh voice.

The sight caused a pang. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for several moments. He forced himself to stamp down on his rising anger. He opened his eyes and studied her as she cowered on the floor. She was so lovely, so young. Her dear sweet face. Within was Lyanna. He...he shouldn't frighten her so. A girl like her must be won and wooed.

She turned away as he spoke with the voice of the Angel again.

"We will forget this, my dear. You will see how forgiving I can be. After all, I haven't killed you yet, have I? I said I would if you saw that man, that Hound again. But I didn't. I've given you another chance instead."

He bent down and just barely stroked her hair, his hand hovering in the air above her head. "I'm not bad. Not truly. In my heart I am good. Love me and you'll see."

She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. He sounded like Lady when she whined for a treat.

She heard him hiss and she peeked over her shoulder. He was grimacing, massaging his chest.

She remembered what he'd said about the close air down here affecting his chest. He was panting.

She was about to reach out and inquire when he seemed to gain control again. A mad, soft fervor blazed in his eyes. "Listen, dear. I know I'm fearful. I know I'm violent. But that is because I am touched by R'hllor. It is because I am the great red dragon. Blood of dragons, of fire, race through my veins. Dragons are magnificent and powerful -- and terrible. That is the price of fire made flesh. But -- with you I will be gentle. If you choose me, if you choose life, I will take you below and show you my secrets, prove to you that I am the dragon. We will hide there until the mob above leaves. You and I will fulfill a prophecy poets will sing about for ages to come, Lyanna."

He stroked her hair more firmly, a condescending smile playing about his ruined face. "My sweet Lyanna."

An unholy light inflamed his eyes, his melted features.

An odd fury grew in Sansa's soul. She meant nothing to him. All this mayhem that he claimed was for her, and it was instead for her aunt, long dead. Not only were his actions mad, they were pointless. His talk of dragons and prophecies....

 _Dragons do not survive the winter. Only wolves. And winter is coming_.

She did not know where that thought came from, but it lent her a burst of wild courage.

There was the distant howling of a direwolf in her low voice as she asked him, "What of Elia Martell? Was she not worth singing about?"

She regretted her words the instant she saw his pupils dilate, his face go empty. The very roar of a dragon escaped him.

He lunged at her, his hands twisting in her hair again. He was practically nose to nose with her. " _Never mention her or my lost family again._ You don't understand my pain, you _can't understand my pain._ "

So saying, he seized her wrist and twisted it painfully.

She cried out.

Her cry was answered by a blood-cold threat from another source.

_"Let her go or I'll tear off what's left of your sorry face, Targaryen."_

Sansa never felt such paralyzing fear and hope and hysteria in her life.

Sandor stood behind the portcullis, his hands around the bars. Like Rhaegar, he was drenched by the lake's waters. His hair and white shirt were plastered against his skin. The dark hair on his broad chest glistened in the dim candlelight. 

"No," she whispered. _Go back. Go back._

Deadly silence followed his reply, Rhaegar seemingly unbreathing.

Slowly a ghastly smile stretched his burnt face.

"It looks as if we have a guest, my dear," came Rhaegar's cool elegant voice.

All angry passion seemed vanished as he released her and stood gracefully. He bowed to Sandor. "I bid you welcome, sir."

She almost cried at how detached he sounded. He'd never been so dangerous before.

Neither was Sandor as he replied in his deep rasping voice, "I'm no sir."

"Sandor, please leave, please," she begged from where she knelt on the ground. Rhaegar was too calm, Sandor too furious. Something terrible would happen. Something -- 

Sandor only growled at the hideous man before him.

This man laughed pleasantly. "Nonsense, nonsense! Come in, my friend! Come in!"

The Phantom raised his arms like a priest does at a conversion.

The portcullis lifted.

Once Sandor stormed in, the gate came back down.

The Hound's face was hot and murderous compared to Rhaegar's cold and courteous countenance. Fire and ice, ice and fire. Only this time it was the dragon that embraced ice.

Both faces kissed greedily by fire, looking each other in the eye. The victims of Gregor's flames were ready to destroy each other.

Sandor had watched silently for a few moments once he reached the bank to the lair. He hadn't planned to be so rash. He'd meant to quietly study the domain from the shadows, search for any weakness. But when he saw his bruised little bird huddled on the ground, he couldn't breathe or focus for the painful rage racking his body. He'd shivered at the steely words about Elia Martell that came out of her voice, in contrast to her weak appearance.

When Rhaegar answered her by hurting her, and Sandor heard her cry, all rational thought fled him. 

_No one hurts my little bird no one hurts my little bird --_

The Hound bared his teeth at the dragon now. "All right, let's see how tough you are man to man when you're not dropping chandeliers and drowning people in darkness." He brandished his knife and advanced.

Sansa frantically took in his posture and Rhaegar's odd air of serenity. She remembered --

"Sandor! Your hand at the level" --

All at once like a snake striking, Rhaegar raised his hand again. Sandor had only the chance to look up and see the noose come flying at him, catching him around the neck. His breath knocked out of him, he was defenseless as the weight of the rope pulled him back to the portcullis, pinning him there. He dropped his knife. "-- Of your eyes," Rhaegar finished for Sansa in his calm voice. He laughed lightly. 

He pulled the rope tight, trapping Sandor more securely against the bars.

All Rhaegar would have to do is raise the massive gate again and Sandor would strangle to death.

Sansa cried out like a wolf shot.

Sandor growled and struggled to free himself. The fool he was, the fucking fool....

 _Sansa._ He stared at the little bird he'd failed.

She looked undone.

Rhaegar, still oddly serene, picked up Sandor's knife. He turned it over in his hand, holding it up to the light. "You know, I was thinking of plunging the sword of my ancestors into Nissa Nissa's breast. But maybe Lightbringer wouldn't be forged from such an obvious source. Yes, maybe this -- the knife of the man she betrayed me with -- ah, yes. How beautifully poetic. The knife dipped into fire, plunged into her heart" --

Sandor's eyes widened until Rhaegar could see the whites surrounding the irises. "Don't. Don't." He was close to hyperventilating. "Don't do it. Please. Carve me up, hang me, I don't care. Don't burn her, don't burn her." The breath chugged out of his nostrils. He was a picture of primitive panic. "Please. Please."

Rhaegar's smile was like a rictus on a ghoul's skull. "I believe I shall. In front of you."

"Rhaegar," Sansa called.

Rhaegar ignored her. "Then I shall hang you, watch you struggle in the air as you watch her burn and die with your last breath."

"Rhaegar."

The Phantom noticed the strangely soft, melancholy note to her voice.

He turned.

Her face was so gentle and mild as she held up the crown to him. "I choose the crown. I choose to bear the prince that was promised. I choose you. On condition you let him go."

He studied her closely.

She was pale and still. Her blue, Tully-river eyes never left his.

For the first time, he saw no fright in those glorious eyes. For the first time, he saw clear honesty.

Before he'd only seen his dead bride in the tears of her sorrowing eyes.

Now he saw his living bride.

He swayed. The sharp ache was back like a knife wound in his chest. He remembered another wedding in another lifetime. A bride stood before him he barely knew. In her dark eyes, however, was the same clarity and strength in Sansa's. Life.

As if moving through a dream, he slowly and tentatively approached her. "Don't!" The Hound pleaded behind him. She did not flinch. Her only movement was to extend the crown toward Rhaegar.

He ignored it. He could only look at her.

He swore -- he swore -- that she put her forehead down, just a little, just a little. Toward him. As if for --

Barely breathing, barely alive himself, he very slowly pressed his black thin ruined lips to her forehead and -- kissed her.

_There was good-natured laughter in her voice as she spoke the formal words, 'I, Elia Martell, take Rhaegar Targaryen as my --"_

His living bride.

The knife slipped out of his hands.

Sansa saw tears well in his beautiful eyes and spill onto his ravaged cheeks.

The deep well of compassion at the very center of her soul suddenly answered his tears.

She reached out and wiped one away. "Poor unhappy Rhaegar," she whispered.

He saw both the wolf and the viper in her blue eyes, both noble beasts taken over by kindness.

He fell to his knees with a low cry, cringing as he took his chest in his hands.

He shook, gasping for breath.

Sansa was alarmed. "Rhaegar...?" She crouched down, trying to rouse him, forgetting his face.

He choked words out as if they took every effort in his soul. "The knife...take the knife and free your man...."

Sansa blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then her eyes fell on Sandor's discarded knife.

Without a word more, she grabbed the knife and sped over to the tied up Sandor. She hurriedly cut the ropes binding him, savoring the warmth that radiated from his limbs.

At last he was free, and she wordlessly pressed his big hand to her lips.

 _The little bird saved me_ , Sandor thought stunned. She saved herself, too. She needed no weapon to do it. Just that damned good nature of hers.

Who was the knight in shining armor now, he thought ruefully.

He pulled her to him, burying his face in her soft mane. Oh gods, to have her here, in his arms, alive, unburned.

But they needed to get out --

"Come on," he rasped, pulling at her. He felt no need to put the ghost away. He was already done for, by the looks of him.

"No," she turned back to the man struggling for breath now on the lair's floor. "He needs help."

Before Sandor could stop her, she'd run back to Rhaegar.

"Girl!"

He ran after her and was prepared to grab her away, but it was obvious Rhaegar could do her no harm. She helped Rhaegar unbutton his cravat. "What's wrong, Rhaegar?"

His voice, always so powerful before, was painfully reedy now. "My heart...my damned heart. I've known, I've known for a long time now, but convinced myself I had time. But I've failed. I've failed...failed you...failed Lyanna...failed everyone...."

Tears filled Sansa's eyes. _Her Angel._ She knew, of course, all that he'd done. She would always hate him for that a little. However, she remembered everything that happened to him, everything taken from him, and how even through the madness that followed he made her song take flight. Yes, she'd always love him a little for that, as well. "Shh," she tried calming him. She turned to Sandor. "Should we get him to his bed?"

Rhaegar sobbed once. "Too late...it's too late for me, my love." He leaned back, Sansa propping his head up in her lap. His eyes were unfocused, trailing his pitiful domain. "I can't die now, I can't! The...the prophecy...the prince...oh, my Lyanna, leave now while you still can!" He grabbed Sansa's skirt, staring at her with penetrating intensity. "Go with the Hound. I know you love the man. Don't cry anymore." He took in another rattling breath. "I am not worthy of R'hllor's pity. I have not supplied the prince."

_"Yes you have, Rhaegar."_

All three turned their heads to the right.

Climbing out of a trapdoor in the floor was Varys, carrying a lantern.

Behind him was a young dark-haired man, a stranger to Rhaegar.

"Jon!" Sansa cried. Taking care that Rhaegar was comfortable on the ground, she leapt up and ran to her brother, throwing herself in his arms.

He held her to him. Any other time, Jon would have been puzzled but warmed by Sansa's demonstrative display. Before she'd always been torn between showing him affection and not dishonoring her mother by paying him too much attention. _You've grown up, little sister._ Yet now, Jon only had eyes for the miserable creature dying on the floor.

Varys stepped forward, addressing his former master. "This is Jon Snow, Rhaegar."

As he struggled for breath, Rhaegar tried concentrating. _The bastard? Ned Stark's bastard?_

Those gray eyes of his -- even more than in Arya Stark, there Rhaegar saw Lyanna.

"He has come a long way, leaving his regiment up North." While his face and voice remained placid, there was a dark regret looming in Varys's eyes as he spoke. "I did not tell you everything that happened that night, Rhaegar." He glanced up at Sandor. "Nor you. I was not making tea when the fire broke out. I was there, in the amphitheater. I followed Elia, trying to convince her not to interfere." He closed his eyes. "I was close to the exit when the flames grew. So...so was Lyanna. Like me, she was just far enough away only to get a mouthful of smoke when the chandelier came down. I had to go after her...she was trying to save your wife. Your children. I heard her say over and over again, 'the babies, we have to save the babies...' She was frantic in her desperation. But the chandelier had come down directly on them. I knew they'd died instantly. Thankfully, I doubt they felt much pain. I finally succeeded in pulling Lyanna away, out of the theater."

His eyes darkened. "She lived, Rhaegar."

The picture vibrated and hummed in Rhaegar's eyes. 

"Lyanna...she lived? But...how...?"

"Aye, how?" Sandor interrupted gruffly. "There were five bodies found. If not Lyanna, then" --

"Your brother," Varys said.

Sandor froze. "What?"

"In his zeal cornering Rhaegar below, he apparently did not stop to think of how he'd escape. He'd stumbled back above only to find himself trapped. He tripped and fell into the orchestra pit, which caught most of the flames. The fire ate so much of his body that no one could tell the man that had been close to eight feet tall wasn't the shorter Rhaegar Targaryen. I could only tell it was Gregor when I visited the scene with the police and saw near him the remains of the table leg he'd used to burn your face, Rhaegar. I told the police that it was you. I had in my possession one of your rings and hid it in his ashes. I told them I saw Gregor flee. Meanwhile, poor Arthur Dayne's body...his was taken for Lyanna's. "

Sandor only vaguely felt Sansa's hand on his arm. The world was spinning.

Gregor...Gregor _dead._ All this time.

As a child after the fire, he'd repeated a mantra to himself, something to comfort him and harden him in his darkest moments: "I will kill him one day. I will kill him."

The Hound had lived his life without any great ambition beyond this. The desire dulled as the years flew by, and it became clear Gregor was far from Westeros's shores, and Sandor had no resources to hunt him down. When he met Sansa the desire for vengeance faded even more with his obsessive care and affection for her. He hadn't truly thought of Gregor in months.

Now Gregor was dead.

Burnt. Burnt alive.

The thought made him feel ill and exulted all at once.

He was dead. All this time.

The initial rage at missing his chance of strangling the life out of his thick horrid neck faded.

Absently, he covered Sansa's hand with his own.

It was all right now.

"Why, Varys?" Rhaegar croaked. "Why the deception?"

"It was Lyanna's wish, Rhaegar," Varys said softly. "She was consumed by guilt at unwittingly playing a part in the tragedy. She was terrified of her pregnancy. She begged me to keep her hidden away until she could get home without detection. I found her quarters in the slums, watched over by a wet-nurse, Wylla. She was left much weakened by the fire, inhaling more smoke than I. Still, I kept her safe as I could. However, Ned Stark soon came to investigate his sister's supposed death. Miss Stark, your father is a clever man. He smelled a rat, somewhere. He lingered long after the police had closed their own investigations.

"Lyanna was still so ashamed she refused to let me tell him his sister lived. It was only when she was giving birth that she begged me to find him and bring him to her."

Rhaegar's breath was coming out faster.

_The baby. The baby. The baby the baby._

Varys's voice was so soft now, so gentle yet distant. "The birth took what was left of her strength. Before she died, she made Ned promise to look after her child as his own, to never let the world know his origins. I still can't tell if Ned Stark was more honorable or idiotic in his strict keeping of this promise, at the expense of his own father's life at the dishonor and his own wife's happiness in those early years. But keep his word he did." Varys placed a light hand on Jon's shoulder. "He raised Jon Snow as his own."

Rhaegar's hand clawed at his chest again. He stared and stared at Jon.

The young soldier knelt. His face was a lost little boy's staring bravely at what he'd sought and not sought all his life. 

His strong hand on Rhaegar's. "Father," he whispered.

Happiness like the sun warmed what was left in Rhaegar's heart. Tears poured out of his eyes again.

All this time, all this time....

His _son._

Trembling, he lifted his hand and found Jon's cheek. His long narrow face fit right into his hand. The soft gray eyes were Lyanna's and his.

"The prince that was promised..." He laughed through his tears. "My son."

Clasping his wrist, Jon said in his austere grave voice, "I will do all that I can to make you proud, Father. This I swear."

 _Such happiness is not possible for a wretch like me, surely_ , Rhaegar thought. He looked over this boy, his boy, Jon Snow. Jon Targaryen. He looked at the noble expression, the respectful warrior's stance. He heard the wise, manly voice.

He was more than the prince, more than Azor Ahai. He was Jon Snow Targaryen, _Rhaegar's son._

_This truly is the moment to die. I have never felt so happy. Never felt so whole._

Yet hand in hand with this bright happiness was a sorrow he'd never fully taken in until now.

He was nearing the end now. The images in front of him were slightly blurred.

His mind became clouded as well. "My son...." His skeletal brow wrinkled. He choked out through his tears. "Aegon...Rhaenys....oh, gods! What have I done?"

His hands bat desperately at the air. He stared and stared at his son. "My children...forgive me!" 

His eyes swam to Sansa. She was kneeling now, too, his other hand in hers. Her hair looked darker through his wavering vision, like she could almost be..."Lyanna, forgive me." Sansa kissed his hand.

His eyes took them both in, savoring what he could see of them.

Next, he looked heavenward, and a look of such acute grief was never seen before. "Oh, Elia, forgive me...."

Those words held all the sadness of the world.

On impulse, Jon hastily leaned down and kissed his father's forehead. "We forgive you, Father. We forgive you." Tears wavered in his stoic voice.

The happiness returned to Rhaegar's dimming eyes. His angelic voice was gone, and he could only mouth the words, "Thank you. Thank you."

His hands went limp in theirs. He was dead.

The moment of silence stretched on. Jon very carefully folded his father's hand over the dead man's chest.

He looked into Sansa's blue eyes. His sister's eyes. His cousin's eyes. His blood.

He reached over and took her hand instead.

She squeezed his and smiled at him sadly through her tears.

Jon Snow was unmoored, but he'd survive. He wasn't sure how to continue now. His whole life, the very core of his identity had centered around the fact that just, kind, worthy Ned Stark was his father. He'd lived his life with the sole goal of becoming worthy of Ned's legacy.

Jon stared now at the disfigured mad murderer who lay dead before him.

His father.

The realization should kill Jon. Yet he only felt a grief so intense he was afraid King's Landing would sink under the weight of it.

Sandor Clegane -- the brother of the man who stole Jon's true parents away from him -- bent down and suddenly pressed his cheek into the crown of Sansa's head. His eyes were stony yet heavy with primal possessiveness.

Love?

Jon wasn't sure. He'd never expected delicate, ladylike Sansa to welcome advances from a man this rough and unconventional. But when Jon saw Sansa lean into Sandor's caress, he knew that he hadn't the heart to put a stop to it.

_Let the dead stay buried. Let them no longer haunt us._

A great chorus of clashing voices splashing through the waves caught their attention. The flicker of torches and lanterns became visible, then the bodies accompanying them.

The mob had broken through the gates, with the help of the police.

Leading the brigade after climbing over the portcullis was a small boy that Jon quickly recognized through the short hair and rumpled slacks. Arya.

Despite the fact she was sopping wet, she looked vitalized, ready for action.

Her face lit up when she saw the young man in military uniform. It had been a while since she'd seen her brother, but --

"Jon!" Smiling like the horsey little wench he'd left behind, Arya gracelessly threw herself around his neck. A handsome young man followed at her heels, a little awkward. 

Behind him were the chaotic remnants of the mob that had made it down without turning back or passing out drunk.

Pushing his way to the front was Selmy. He, like the rest of the mob, initially recoiled at the sight of the skeletal corpse with the death's head before them.

At last the old policeman found his voice. "What has gone on here?"

Jon stood, his manner and bearing perfectly military. "Sir, I am Lieutenant Jon Snow of the Northern Army. I was the son of this late man, Rhaegar Targaryen."

He was as remote and mournful as the Northern winds.

Selmy's mouth was uncharacteristically agape. 

Arya was astounded. "Rhaegar Targaryen your father?"

Jon smiled at her with infinite tenderness and sadness. He ruffled her hair.

"But you're still my sister, you hear? You're always my sister." He looked up shyly at Sansa. "You as well?"

Sansa laughed joyously. The shame, the worry about Mother seemed like such a childish thing of long ago. "Me as well, big brother."

Selmy blinked once or twice, then turned to Sansa, who was also standing, very close to the Hound. "You are well, Miss Stark?" He took in her bruise, her white pallor. 

She nodded bravely. "Yes." She turned to gaze up at Sandor, who was unreadable outside of the warm gleam in his eyes. "At least, I will be."

Like Jon, her words were questioning. 

Sandor answered her by caressing the small of her back. "Aye," he said in a voice so low only she could hear. "We'll be all right, girl. We will."

Her smile was so soft and hopeful Sandor felt parts of himself break and come together again.

Selmy coughed, regaining his composure. "Right. Men!" He turned to the officers he'd brought with him and improvised instructions as the mob, feeling strangely as if they'd walked upon an anti-climax of sorts, looked around the lair and commented about the terrifyingly hideous corpse in front of them. They spoke in softer voices than the warrior cries they'd entered with.

Jon kissed Arya on top of her head. She squeezed him then ran off to check on Sansa.

Jon was left to watch as the officers covered his father with a makeshift tarp that had been a blanket covering his sofa.

He watched as the death's head was covered.

_My father's death's head._

"Psst! Ay!"

Jon turned.

A round freckled face with wild red hair in a messy bun grinned understandingly at him. She'd made her way through the crowd and had edged up to Jon, jabbing him with her elbow. "Hard luck for ya, yeah?"

Jon looked at her skinny legs in their breeches and the sympathetic smirk on her face. He couldn't help but laugh at her frankness. "Well, yes, I suppose."

She very companionably nudged a flask toward him. "Take a swig. Give ya courage. Drink it in tribute of your old man, Jon Snow."

Something about the way her blue eyes flashed, and the particularly Northern lilt she gave his name, fascinated Jon as much as anything could through the shock of recent events.

He shrugged and accepted the flask. "Thank you, Miss...?"

She giggled. "Miss Nothin'. Call me Ygritte."

"Ygritte," he repeated. The girl shivered at the way he said it, then laughed at herself. He laughed back. It felt so odd yet good to laugh after all that had happened.

They were interrupted in this sweet distraction by Selmy again. "Mr. Clegane just told me that Mr. Varys led you down. Where is he? His employer Petyr Baelish is dead. We found him in the lake. I have a feeling this man has much to answer for, even if he is not directly responsible for all these deaths."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Certainly! But he's just behind me --"

Jon looked.

Varys was nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we have about one more chapter and then the epilogue! 
> 
> In case anyone's wondering, I don't think Rhaegar was ever strictly in love with Elia in the purely exciting romantic sense, either here or in canon. But here at least he _loved_ her, y'know? It wasn't enough, and he still didn't deserve to breathe the same air as she did, but at least he acknowledges now that she was the best part of his life.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly restrained smut ahoy! Changed my rating to Mature.

With her eyes closed, Sansa could almost imagine herself a child again: dandled in her mother’s arms, rocked in the river by her grandfather’s house, cradled in the womb. Like a baby at her mother’s breast, like a fetus in the womb, she had against her ear the strong and steady heartbeat of her man, and both of them were jostled rhytmnically by the carriage trotting slowly down the road to the Tyrell’s home.

She sighed in deep contentment tinged by a grave heartbreak.

All that came immediately after Rhaegar’s death was a dull blur. Jon, the mob, Varys's mysterious disappearance, all was indistinct and distant. She vaguely remembered Sandor steering her out with a blanket around her shoulders, the Hound refusing to quit her side even above in Tyrion’s office. She’d methodically answered all Selmy’s questions. She thanked Tyrion for his by now drunken and exhausted sympathy. He'd shaken hands gratefully with Jon, happy through his distress to see him again. 

What she remembered most was Jon’s eyes. He’d always held a hint of melancholy there – how that look haunted her all these years away from him, troubled at the thought she could have partly caused it – but there was a childlike, numbed shock in their depths now.

She felt some of that same shock, too, as she was sure Arya must as well. Ned Stark, their father and idol, had lied to them – honorably, yes, but still he lied. Jon was not their brother.

He was Lyanna’s child. The woman who had been a distant ache in the Stark children’s consciousness, then a manifestation of horror for Sansa underground, was the mother of their Jon Snow.

At the same time, Sansa felt strangely optimistic when it came to Jon. He was a Stark; he had far more wolf in him than dragon. That much was obvious, not only from his Northern looks. He would endure and learn to embrace both families within him.

Besides, he was already smiling again, just a mite – and always to Ygritte, who followed at his heels to the office. It was clear the girl was smitten, and Jon – well, he wasn’t always easy to read, but the fact he was smiling at her at a time like this – well, there it was.

Sansa’s contentment grew as she burrowed herself deeper in Sandor’s arms.

She smiled against his shoulder. After the interrogation, Jon had placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder. _So much like Father would_. “Sansa, I’m glad beyond reason you’re safe, but we’re all still quite put out by your behavior. You know how much” – he paled a little and licked his lips. “ – _your father and mother_ love you.” Sansa’s heart broke all over again for him. He was going to say _our_ father, but... _gods, Father’s his uncle! Jon's uncle!_

Her brother – _not my cousin, forever my brother_ – continued stalwart. “You’ve worried them so. We are returning first thing tomorrow. I’ll book you and Arya a room at my hotel” –

“Nonsense,” a sly, confident voice interrupted. Madame Olenna gracefully slunk into view. She’d moments before been far more impassioned, out in the hallway. She’d boxed Margaery’s ears and scolded her harshly for heading down to the lair with the mob, an embarrassing yet comical spectacle for the sophisticated contralto. Immediately after, Olenna had taken her uncharacteristically stunned granddaughter in her arms and hugged her tightly.

Now, however, she was the same aloofly amused Dame of Thorns as always as she placed a light hand on Jon’s back. “Nonsense. Why disarrange the girls after such a trial? Let Sansa at least stay one night more in my house.” With the same silky evenness, she then tilted Sansa’s chin back, studying her with laughing eyes. “Why, you’re so peaked, my dear girl. You need to go to bed immediately. Little Arya is running about somewhere with her friends, so I’ll send her along later, or maybe she at least can stay with Mr. Snow in the hotel. Mr. Clegane can escort you back to my home and see you safe. We’ll be by in a couple hours, when everything dies down over here.”

She spoke so casually Jon almost didn’t react, before he realized – “Madame, I certainly don’t think it proper”—

“Oh, hush, boy,” Olenna easily brushed him off. “Come here. Bring Ygritte. I have a few questions about the North for you both. All this has made me realize I haven’t traveled as much of Westeros as I should have, and at my age, I better do it now if I’m going to. Come along!”

And so with the divine intervention of a tart-tongued ballet mistress, Sansa now sat nestled in her lover’s arms, the carriage’s wheels lulling her into a half-sleep.

They’d spoken but little.

Her slender hand was tucked in his.

He breathed her in. 

“We’re almost there, little bird,” his voice rumbled in her ear.

She smiled again at the way his chest vibrated as he spoke.

He was alive, so wonderfully, splendidly alive.

She’d never known such visceral terror and rage in her life than when she saw him trapped in Rhaegar’s lasso.

_Rhaegar._

Rhaegar Targaryen was as cold and dead as the concrete prison he’d lived in for almost twenty-two years. Sansa would speak to Jon about burying him in the coffin he’d slept in.

Her teacher, her Angel.

Her folly. Her demon. Her poor unhappy Rhaegar.

The carriage stopped.

Never letting go of her hand, Sandor led her to the front door. 

Sansa used her key to let them in, Olenna always giving the servants the night off during performances.

Sandor walked her as far as the staircase.

Now it was Sansa who would not let go of him. She pulled him gently as she climbed the first couple steps toward her bedroom.

He halted, eyes hard and vaguely frightened. “No,” he rasped softly. “I can’t. Not after what you’ve been through tonight, girl. We can’t do that yet.”

That ecstatic remoteness returned to her unworldly blue eyes. Her voice was so young and ancient at the same time. “I know. Not that, not yet. But I need you to hold me.”

He was drowning in bright deep blue that led him step by step to her room.

As she lied on the bed he felt that whatever she willed, he would do. That connection they'd shared the instant he roughly put his hand on her shoulder had turned into a bond so strong it was almost tangible; he could practically feel the invisible cord tying him to her.

She was his. His. Someone tried taking her away, tried hurting her, but she was back now, she was his, completely his.

And oh gods, he was hers. He – he was nothing but hers.

He followed her to the bed. 

He supported himself on his forearms on either side of her.

She breathed heavily, almost panting. He was enormous, his face filling the world. She ran a light, searching hand over his burns. She wanted to memorize them. Every crevice, every shining patch of red skin was dearer to her than any piece of art she could think of, as painful as it was to think of how –

“Sandor,” she whispered. “Your brother. He’s dead.”

That eternal twist in his cheek. “Aye,” he nodded. “Aye.”

His eyes were so far away.

She made him look at her. “How – how do you feel about that?”

He laughed sardonically. “About like somebody’s reached inside me and rearranged my guts. What a fucking fool I’ve been all these years, wondering when I’d get the chance to end his life myself.”

Sansa hid her relief. She’d never lose him now. He’d never one day get a lead and leave her to enact fratricide, or else die at his brother’s hands. He was hers and hers alone.

This happy realization made her heart burn with something primal and she kissed him ferociously.

Every deep surprised and lusting sound he made further inflamed her.

He broke the kiss as she started pulling his only recently dried shirt from his shoulders. “Girl,” he said firmly.

“Not that. Not yet,” she repeated. “But I need to see you, need to feel you.”

He swallowed, in equal parts lust and self-consciousness. “Just how do you know you’ll like what you’ll see?”

She tilted her head in that sleepy, dreamy way of hers that always made him hurt with tenderness. “I will,” she whispered, accompanied by a small grin. "Besides, there's only one way to find out."

Unable to stop her when confronted by such a look as that, he let her remove the rest of his shirt.

He could scarcely breathe as her vast eyes took him in. The instant her hand landed on his broad chest he couldn’t help his moan.

That combined with the damp heat from his chest, cushioned by the dark coarse hair covering it, stirred the already sharp and tingling lust deep in her womanhood.

His rounded muscled shoulders, his tanned skin, the slight cuts here and there, the dark hair, the small nipples almost disappearing in that hair – she was enraged with need.

He felt like a wolf was lunging at him as her soft mouth pressed violently against his chest. Her lips trailed lower and soon he moaned again as her tongue found one of his nipples.

His cock strained mercilessly against his trousers. He panted.

“I can’t – I can’t control myself, girl. We need to stop. Stop now. Before” –

He trailed off, and Sansa felt his naked arms trembling around her.

She raised her head and stared at him seriously. “I need to feel like we belong to each other again.”

His eyes were pictures of yearning and despair. “I can’t take you so soon, little bird. After everything that’s happened – I guess we’re both in shock, or whatever those newfangled psychiatrists or psychologists would call it. We can’t” –

“I know, I know,” she said soothingly, rubbing his shoulders in slow circles. “But…I want to touch you. Maybe….” She looked down at the large bulge barely concealed within his trousers. She recalled a few chapters she read blushingly from one of Margaery’s collections of romance novels. She’d been scandalized and shut it quickly after reading it, but her desire stirred at the thought of –

Her hand made its way down his stomach to his crotch and she cupped him through his pants. 

She could have sworn he actually whimpered.

“Please, let me, Sandor,” she whispered against his neck, kissing his scruff.

He trembled again. In a strained voice, he asked, “Have you got a handkerchief?”

Dimly she was aware of what he was asking. She nodded. She reached into her nightstand and removed a lacy lilac-colored kerchief.

Knowing that the frilly scrap of silk had touched her, perhaps daubed her skin with that vanilla-lemon scent, aroused him more than anything else. He somehow found his voice and said, “Use that to catch…to catch my seed.”

She shivered deep in her bones at his frank language.

He smirked. "Can't mess up your nice clean sheets, girl." Lust vibrated in his rasping voice.

With agonizing slowness, she unbuttoned him and pulled down his trousers. She wasn’t satisfied with just freeing his member; she needed to see his long legs strong as tree trunks, see him completely bared, for her, for her.

His erection was dark brown with the blood of his arousal. It stuck out from a nest of black curling hair.

All at once her ladylike upbringing rared its head and heated her cheeks. She was paralyzed with shyness. _So big, so alien_. She almost felt like the bobbing erection was something completely separate from the man she loved, so foreign to her sheltered sensibilities was it.

Then she saw his cock tremble, and knew that was because Sandor himself trembled. Any fear or reticence vanished.

Holding her breath, she clasped his erection in one hand, while supporting it with the handkerchief in her other hand.

Her desire skyrocketed when Sandor hissed and his stomach curved upward. He was glorious, majestic. And he was all hers.

She stole a glance at his face. His eyes were shut tightly. He looked like he was concentrating on something. His mouth was partly open.

She kissed him quickly. “I read something a little while ago. I’ll…I’ll try to imitate what I read.”

He laughed noiselessly. His quaint, earnest little bird, doing as she read. She – she was so –

Rational thought fled him as she began tugging on his cock, caressing its entire length in hypnotic, fluid movements.

The cool feel of her bare hand on his skin. The whisper of fabric from the handkerchief.

He saw snapping stars beneath his lids.

“Harder…harder…” he gritted through his clenched teeth.

A sheen of sweat coated them both.

She grew completely wet the harder his cock became under her ministrations.

At that moment Sandor growled. He’d apparently become aware at last of her still fully clothed state, and was put out that he should be the only one nude.

He hastily pulled down her flimsy dungeon shift, then quickly unlaced the corset underneath.

Sansa was going mad. She needed him – she needed him inside –

She howled like the wolf she was as he sucked one of her pink nipples into his mouth.

Sandor was simultaneously in all the heavens and hells, thrashing under her touch. She kept tugging him, at the same time writhing beneath him as he sucked and licked at her nipples on those creamy white teats.

“Oh, gods, girl,” he said in that strained voice, burying his head in the valley of her breasts. “Harder!” She was far too gentle, his innocent little bird. He wanted _harder. Harder. Harder._

He stopped breathing as she acquiesced.

He’d never – never felt such – 

There was a sharp pang deep in his throbbing erection. She pulled with both hands now, the handkerchief wrapped around his tip.

_Harder harder sharper harder so sharp and hard and hot, searing -_

He came with a roar.

He soaked the handkerchief through and through.

He moaned out every last drop.

Gods, this feeling. What was this? Never with any whore had he felt... _this._

The sensation rocked his body, made him hover over the room and soar over the entire city, and _oh, gods._

At last he collapsed on top of her. He covered her. 

Her skin, he needed her skin. He pressed her into him, trying to bury his way inside her of so that he could breathe her oxygen, her blood, her flesh.

His cheeks were damp with tears and he pressed them against hers.

He was past shame. He was a broken man. She’d broken him, and he reveled in it.

Together they’d build him back up again.

Her little voice was desperate in his ears. “Please, please. I need you. Need you in me.”

He stared at her and almost came again at the frantic yet oddly languid arousal brightening her eyes and cheeks, making her lips seem fuller and redder. A light auburn lock, all red with brown highlights, was plastered damply against her brow.

He couldn’t rip away her maidenhood. He wouldn’t let himself. She deserved him taking the time to ensure her comfort. They were both too frenzied to reclaim each other after their brush with death to give the act the gentleness it needed.

And so Sandor slid down, down to his knees at the foot of the bed. Very carefully he pulled her down lower, then he parted her legs.

She threw her head back on the pillow, smiling and laughing with a joyous wantonness. _Yes yes yes yes –_

He’d never heard such a beautiful, glorious sound as she grunt-groaned when his tongue licked her walls and her very core.

He gave her a houndish grin over her naked body. “Aye, little bird. Sing for me.”

He buried his face in the warmth of her juices and licked, sucked. Better than any cordial, better than any wine. She was his blooming red flower of a bird-wolf.

She shivered and thrusted into his greedy mouth. Her body writhed with the seductive twists of a cobra. His big thick tongue probed and lashed inside her. She cried and laughed and threw her head side to side against her pillow.

His hand found his cock and he pulled it brutally as she sang in truth for him.

The notes that flew out of her as she tightened and climaxed were honey and wildflowers. Her song shot through his entire body.

He came in his hand, hastily pressing the wet handkerchief there to catch more of his seed. He moaned with his mouth still inside her.

Sated and defeated, he lay his head against her stomach, wrapping his arms around her waist.

One feeling pervaded Sandor that he’d never before experienced as her stomach moved his face up and down, up and down.

Comfort.

As her hand gently caressed his damp hair, he knew she felt it, too.

 

He had to leave soon.

Yet he made no move to do so from where he now held her tightly to him, spooning her against his body. He curled around her.

The Tyrell women would soon be home. Unless he wanted to scale the gutters outside Sansa’s window, he’d have to make himself scarce before they arrived.

Sansa seemed to sense his thoughts, for she squeezed his hand and said, “You have time.”

Her hair smelled like lemon, like vanilla, like snow and wheat and he didn’t know. “Do I, girl?”

“You’ll never leave me again,” she said with matter-of-fact sweetness.

Guilt twisted in his chest. “Sansa. Do you forgive me for not…for doubting you?”

“Mm,” she said, “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” Her expression was very grave, but he could see the jumping light in her eyes as she turned around to caress his cheek. 

“You’re joking, but gods know I failed you.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But even when you thought I might be mad – and really, I can’t blame you that much – you still wanted to save me. Still wanted to keep me safe.” She cupped his cheek, staring at him adoringly. “That counts a lot, you know.”

He clutched her wrist, eyes burning. “I _will_ keep you safe. Anyone tries to hurt you again, I’ll kill them.”

It came upon her all in a rush how vital he was, how strong and fierce. Only this evening she had resigned herself to a cold fate of either death or eternity with a living corpse – a corpse not because of his face, but because of his deadly obsession with the past, with what was gone.

Now –

She buried her gratefulness in Sandor's chest again, rubbing her nose against his clavicle.

“I love you,” she mumbled desperately against his skin. “I love you.”

His arms tightened around her. His voice was hoarse with emotion as he said, “And I love you, girl. I love you so much I can’t think, can’t do anything but just fucking…want you.”

His lips were hard through her hair.

She looked up at him. “And you believe me now? That I really love you and only you?”

The tears were in his eyes again. Her fingers were quick to catch them. _He’s the strongest man I know, and yet he cries in my arms._ This was humbling, excruciating, and wonderful.

At last he found words. “Aye. For whatever reason whirling around in that daft head of yours, you apparently love me true. You’re so perfect, and you love me.”

Amused doubt crossed her face. “I’m not perfect, Sandor.”

“Yes, you are,” he said confidently.

She felt a strange rebellion. She would not be idealized anymore. If she was to be loved, it was to be for herself this time. “No, I’m not. I’ve been rash and childish, and too trusting by far.”

Sandor shrugged. “Aye, and more than that. You’ve been stubborn as a mule and secretive.”

He bit back his laughter at her pouting frown, as she wiggled and huffed. She was a bit miffed. It was all well and good for him to acknowledge she was human, but to do so this readily and then add to her list of flaws!

“Well, thank you very much,” she said facetiously. “But see?”

“Aye, I see.” He kissed her head. “You’re a frightful young bird who will be the death of me.” Another kiss. “You’re perfect.”

Warmth filled her chest. She fought with her own tears. “You’re so – you’re so – oh, I don’t know.” She looked at him very seriously. “You won’t leave me again?”

Her heart would always hold a dark but fond place for the man who’d been her Angel. Rhaegar would forever remain the biggest tragedy in her life. A part of her would always hear him singing, in the deep of the night.

Yet now she knew that her very soul and happiness depended on this scruffy, large, burnt man’s words beside her.

She thrilled as his eyes glowed with determination into her own. “No. Never leave you. Ever. I don’t care if your old man comes at me with a shotgun, I’m sticking to your side from here on out, little bird.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. He cursed his voice for breaking as he said, “I’ll never lose you again.”

Her finger traced his chin. “No. You won’t.” She grinned impishly. “I guess I do know what you are after all. You’re perfect, too.”

“Me?” He raised his eyebrows, then nestled his head against her chest. “No. I’m just a poor dog ready to die for you, Sansa Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're in this solely for the SanSan, you might want to consider this the end. There is SanSan in the epilogue I'll post next, but word-of-mouth SanSan. Spoiler alert, they're not actually in it. Still, I recommend sticking around for it, since we get to hear where they end up and tie up some last-minute loose ends. I hope to write and post it soon.
> 
> P.S. It's canon that Sandor is a big cry-baby, so there's no way he wouldn't dissolve into a puddle of tears as he climaxes in Sansa's hands.


	26. Epilogue

Missandei finished untying her toe shoes in the hall outside the managerial offices.

The ten-year-old was still shy about doing so in front of the other girls. She was still shy about spending too much time with people in general.

Mossador’s words as he left her at the docks drifted through her mind. _“Beyond the Narrow Sea in Westeros you will face hardship and prejudice as well, but at least you will be Missandei – never ‘that one’.”_

 _Mossador. Marselen._ Did they escape as well? Would she ever see them again…?

She leapt to her feet and hid around the corner as the manager’s door opened. She hadn't known anyone was in there. It was early evening now; however, ever since Mr. Lannister took over as owner of the opera house shortly before Missandei’s arrival, he stayed later than she heard he used to.

The small man was escorting out Madame Olenna and the most beautiful girl Missandei had ever seen.

The three were apparently unaware of Missandei’s quiet presence. The stranger spoke to Mr. Lannister. “Thank you so much for meeting with us this late,” she said.

“Of course,” Tyrion bowed his head. He was very proud of himself. He’d barely leered at the girl at all.

He felt the self-imposed pressure of his new professional commitments always. With Baelish’s death and Varys’s disappearance, Tyrion found himself in charge of this theatrical asylum.

His father – well, his father hadn’t wanted Tyrion in charge. He assumed Tyrion would make a drunken debauched mess of the whole thing. 

Tywin Lannister fully intended to take over as temporary director after the various funerals, at least until someone could be found as replacement.

However, at Westeros’s train station, Tywin was mugged by a gang of young ruffians. By the time the authorities reached him, the old lion had bled out from his wounds.

Three of the gang were apprehended. Two killed themselves in their holding cells. When Tyrion saw the young boy that remained at the trial, shaking and crying on the stand, Tyrion swore he looked familiar…some mite from the theater? Running errands for –

_Varys._

Tyrion shuddered as he looked at what he felt sure was one of Varys’s little birds, following his master’s words from wherever the bald, deceptively obsequious man now watched from. Tyrion pitied the child his death sentence.

At least Tommen and Myrcella were spared Tywin Lannister as an option for their guardian.

The thought of the children reminded Tyrion he should be hurrying along. They would worry for him if he tarried much longer.

 _Worry for me._ Tyrion’s heart warmed at the thought.

All his life Tyrion had longed for love. He’d groomed countless whores and courtesans over the years, trying to bend their will into loving him for himself. Ever since his young, lower-class wife left him years ago after constant pressure and threats from Tywin and his goons, he was obsessed with replicating the romantic love he’d felt there, even though he knew deep down it would always be an artificial simulation.

But now Tyrion had found love, true love – paternal love for his niece and nephew.

Jaime’s wife Brienne had at last convinced her husband to come to King’s Landing after the funerals. Tyrion looked into his brother’s eyes and saw everything: the guilt, the heartbreak, and most of all his desire to stay far away from everything that reminded him of his overbearing father and his sister-lover.

Jaime might have changed for the better thanks in large part to the Tarth woman, but as for taking in Tommen and Myrcella….

“You’re the one they really love, Tyrion,” he’d said. “They barely know me. There is too much pain in me when I look at them. I could never be the” – he searched for the right words. _He doesn’t want to say father_ , Tyrion realized.

“ -- _the right protector_ for them. Please don't try to force me. And don't let them fall into Stannis's cold hands, either. You, you are the only one who can look after them and love them.”

Tyrion saw the pain and pleading written in his handsome brother’s features, and saw the fatal weakness there. Tyrion knew what he must do.

And so the frivolous Lannister Imp had become a domesticated man. He, the unruly drunk bachelor playboy, looked forward to nothing more than arriving home to Tommen (the color having returned to the little boy's cheeks two years after his brother and mother’s death) bounding up to him with drawings of Mr. Pounce and Boots. Myrcella playing the piano and singing in the background were what made their comfortable town house seem truly home to Tyrion now.

She’d changed her mind about wanting to go abroad. She very nervously but resolutely approached Tyrion one evening about a year after her mother’s death and said very seriously, “I want to follow in Mama’s footsteps, Uncle. I want to sing on the stage.”  
   
And for the first time in his life, a parental fear crushed his heart. Sansa of all people talked him round.

“Here, let me instruct her a little, sponsor her. Later she can go to the conservatory when she’s ready. Don’t stop her, Mr. Lannister, you’ll only encourage her. Let her do it on her own terms so she doesn’t make a mess of things like I did.”

Myrcella was improving every day, and was becoming every bit as beautiful and willful as her mother, but softer, kinder. Soon would come the day when she’d leave home, and how proud and mournful her uncle would be.

He returned to the present, shaking the new girl’s hand again. His predecessor would never have bothered showing up in person for one more random ballet girl signing a contract, but Tyrion learned at least one valuable thing from Littlefinger: always do the opposite of what that late snake did. Besides, the circumstances were a bit unusual and he wanted to see the girl himself. She’d shown up to the dance studio quite out of the blue and very gravely and quietly asked Olenna to just watch her dance, once. No, she didn’t have references. No, she was never at any sort of dance conservatory.

Olenna was about to dismiss her then and there but all on her own, the girl started to dance for her.

Olenna changed her mind on the spot and insisted Tyrion draw up a contract immediately.

Tyrion spoke to the girl now. “I do believe you’ll thrive here, Miss Darry.”

She curtseyed demurely. “Oh, yes, I hope so, sir.”

She really was a dish. Petite and slender, with big violet eyes staring luminously out of a fine-boned face. Her hair was also beautiful, but the shade was a bit off; obviously dyed, which vaguely surprised Tyrion on a girl as meek and timid as this. The strawberry blonde tint was just a little too garishly vibrant to be convincing, and strangely clashed with her delicate looks.

Still, overall she was almost unnerving in her ethereal beauty. She looked like some sort of sprite from another planet.

“Good night,” he said at last, and turned back to the office after bowing once more to her and Madame Olenna.

Olenna sized the girl up again. “Well, I suppose you think yourself very triumphant, Miss Darry.”

From where she poked her head around the corner, Missandei saw the girl blush with a combination of pride and embarrassment. “I hope you didn’t think me too forward, ma’am.”

“Indeed I did.” A jesting spark danced in Olenna’s eyes. “And that’s why I like you. I think you’ll rise in the ranks quicker than you’ll think. Missandei!” She suddenly barked, not looking away from Miss Darry.

Missandei blushed as well, jumping. The old woman was kind to her, but she also had eyes on not only the back of her head, but on the sides of her face.

Missandei quickly stepped forward.

Olenna addressed the new girl. “This is Missandei, one of the leading dancers from the children’s chorus. She hails all the way from Naath or some such place, but don’t worry, she speaks the Common Tongue eerily well.” The old woman turned to the child. “This is Miss Ella Darry, Missandei. She’s new here. You’re a clever thing, could you escort her to the dormitories and introduce her to her fellow dancers? I ordinarily wouldn’t leave this to a child, but, well, you’re here, aren’t you? And I’m needed elsewhere.”

Without waiting for Missandei’s response, Olenna turned and bid Ella Darry good night.

Missandei was left alone with the newcomer.

And this newcomer smiled at her with far more openness and warmth than the fragile shy way she’d been acting before. The sight was breathtaking.

She actually curtseyed to her. “Hello, Missandei! It’s so very nice to meet you.”

She daintily but vigorously shook Missandei’s small hand.

And Missandei couldn’t help smiling in return. “It’s nice to meet you too, miss. Come this way!”

The young woman plied Missandei with kind questions: how long had Missandei been here, did she like the opera house, were the other little girls in the children’s ballet nice to her?

These good-natured inquiries put Missandei so much at ease she found herself more talkative than she'd been since leaving home.

She answered each question promptly. She’d been here almost a year. Yes, the opera house was a wonderful place, and Missandei loved dancing in front of an audience. The other girls were sort of nice to her, but Missandei had the darkest skin of any there, and she could feel their curious eyes on her. It made Missandei feel too much like some exotic display for her liking.

Soon she was narrating what she knew about the opera house: a few rough details about the Second Scandal involving Rhaegar Targaryen and the understudy soprano, the long hiatus following, and how Missandei was hired just after the reopening.

Ella Darry stayed quiet and attentive.

“Here are the dormitories,” Missandei said at last. She put her ear to the door. “Hm, everyone sounds excited. I wonder if….”

She opened the door and grinned shyly. “Yes. Ygritte’s visiting.”

Ella looked over Missandei’s head into the room.

A group of girls in white tutus with their hair up in buns was shrieking and giggling happily as they sat in a disorganized circle around a skinny redhead with a round freckled face and toothy grin. The girl was dressed a little better than her cohorts, but she still sat with casual bonhomie, her legs crossed inelegantly on her cushioned seat.

“That’s Ygritte, our prima ballerina,” Missandei explained in a whisper. “Even though she has her own flat now, she still comes visit us a lot.” She took Ella’s hand. “Come! She’ll be sure to fill you in on any gossip I missed.”

Something about this kind stranger emboldened Missandei. The little girl led Ella by her hand to the group, which turned quiet at the sight of the child and the newcomer.

“Well, well! What have we here?” Ygritte broke the silence with a hearty, friendly smile.

Missandei was suddenly shy again but she still found her voice. “This is Ella Darry. She’s joining the ballet.”

All eyes were on the strawberry blonde with the big violet eyes.

Blushing scarlet, the girl curtseyed once again.

Ygritte slapped her knee, guffawing. “Oh, lord! Not another lady! I’m just joking, dearie, I love it. Come, sit down! Tell us about yourself.”

Pulling up a chair, the girl blushed again and said hastily, “Oh, not much to tell, really. I grew up in King’s Landing, near the edge of town. I trained privately. I don’t really have any family to speak of, and I need to make my living, so….”

Ygritte nodded sympathetically. “Aye, I know how it is, doll.”

Ella warmed at the kindly murmurs all around her. A few girls pat her knee in commiseration.

Yet Ella must know more. The sweet child who led her here told her some, but this Ygritte person…she _must_ know more….

Ella wasn’t used to girlish, carefree gossiping, but she could take a stab at it.

“So! Enough about me. Missandei here says you’re the one to ask, miss, about all the gossip!”

“I’ll say!” A girl said in assent.

Another one poked Ygritte jokingly with her elbow.

“Guilty as charged!” Ygritte agreed happily. “But lord, there’s so much gossip around these parts I don’t know where to begin! Ask away, old man.”

Ella tried to sound casually unconcerned as she asked, “I hear there was some sort of scandal two years ago. I didn’t read many papers back then, so I don’t know the details….”

That was all she needed to say. All at once a chorus of voices started jabbering over each other, contradicting and confirming each other’s tales as they narrated in choppy phrases and exclamations.

“Quiet! Quiet!” Ygritte announced with mock austerity, employing that affected authority she light-heartedly enjoyed in her promotion to principal dancer. “She asked for me to tell her. Let me.”

Succinctly but with plenty of ghoulish flourish, Ygritte told her all about the Phantom, Sansa Stark, his obsession with her, her kidnapping and eventual rescue, and Rhaegar the Phantom’s death. He was buried privately in the coffin he’d slept in, buried in a private ceremony in the catacombs of the opera house. Only Jon and Sansa had been present: none of Targaryen’s remaining family had answered the inquiries. Since then, Tyrion Lannister had run the opera house relatively smoothly. Varys was never heard from again, and there was all sorts of speculation about where he might be. Abroad, still here in the city, who knows.

Ella listened silently.

“Well, anyway, I’m a bit involved in everything, too, you know.” Ygritte’s eyes sparkled as she straightened mock-grandly. “I got myself engaged to that same Jon Snow!” There was a look of genuine smug joy on her freckled face. “Took a while, but I talked him ‘round. Once his tour of service ends later this month, we’re getting ourselves hitched!” She giggled as Ella politely murmured her congratulations. The new girl’s face went white at the mention of Jon Snow, though no one noticed.

“Thanks!” Ygritte replied. “Ooh, but that reminds me! My soon to be cousin-in-law Sansa got herself in a Scandal almost to rival that whole Phantom business! About six months after everything was finished and done with, she upped and eloped with the bloke what tried to save her – the chief stagehand, Sandor Clegane!” She whispered. “Not too sure what she saw in him at first. Big ugly scary bloke, but eh, once you get to know him…well, he’s still ugly and scary, but at least he’s nuts about her. Anyway, a Stark girl marrying a stagehand – Gregor Clegane’s younger brother, no less! – caused a bit of a row, you know. Her parents have only just come ‘round to the idea.”

“That’s probably because of the baby,” Another ballet girl put in.

“Oh aye, that’ll do it. They’re very fond grandparents. But what a pair Sansa and Sandor are! She’s on a tour of Westeros, an internationally famous singer now!” Again Ygritte mock-puffed up her chest. She laughed again. “Ah, but she’s a sweet girl, my dear cap’n. And he! He tags along as her security. I was at dinner with them the other day, and good lord! You never saw a chap so overprotective. Lookin’ over anybody who entered the restaurant, even as he sat with Sansa. Never seen a man so over the moon for his wife. Or a wife so devoted to her husband, for that matter, for all she bosses him! Ah, but he loves her bossing him.”

Yet another ballet girl piped in. “But you haven’t told her the best part!” She giggled. “Not only is he her security, but when she’s busy at rehearsal and performances, he looks after the baby backstage! Can you imagine?”

“Well, why not?” Ygritte asked. “About time the menfolk see what we females have been putting up with all this time.”

She scooted forward some more. “Anyway, poor old Lord and Lady Stark not only have Clegane to contend with as a son-in-law and the likes of me entering their family, but now our own contralto, Margaery Tyrell! Margaery visited Winterfell with Sansa and Sandor after little Elia Lyanna was born to introduce the baby to the proud grandparents. Old Marg was there to provide moral support for the cap’n and all of that, apparently, since Sansa still wasn’t sure how her parents would react. So what should happen but that Margaery and Sansa’s eldest brother Robb should hit it off! I hear there’s a secret engagement!”

“But tell her about Sansa’s younger sister!”

“I’m getting to that, I’m getting to that! On top of everything else, the latest scuttlebutt is that the youngest Stark girl, Arya, has been a courtin’ that boy what worked with her in the stables here, Gendry Waters! She got him a spot as blacksmith apprentice up in Winterfell, and has been pursuing him like crazy, they say!”

Ygritte cackled. “Them Starks don’t know what hit ‘em! So far not a one of their whelps has picked a mate of their class! Oh, well. Do the lot some good, I say. Fresh working-class blood. Anyway, the cap’n will be back at the end of her tour to star in the new opera season. She claims she’ll retire when young Myrcella Baratheon is old enough to take her place. A very different sort the cap’n is to Cersei, the gods rest the miserable woman’s soul. As for me, I can’t wait to see little Elia again. Cute wee monkey. She’s a peach. Only a little over six months old, and already she knows me as Auntie Ygritte. Well, she babbled something once that sort of sounded like it, so that’s the story I’m sticking to.”

She shrugged, grinning. “That pretty much brings us up to speed, bright eyes!” She hopped up on her feet. “And I hate to leave you lasses, but it’s getting late, and I’ve got a rehearsal tomorrow that starts early as balls. Ta-ta!” She winked at Ella. “Welcome aboard!”

Everyone bid Ygritte good night and then flurried around, realizing they too were expected up early tomorrow.

Ella stood a bit disoriented.

She felt a small tug on her hand and turned to see Missandei smiling gently at her. “We all sleep in the same room, but I don’t think Madame Olenna has a separate bed for you yet. You can take mine and I can sleep with one of the other girls.”

Ella’s shrewd eyes caught the paralyzed hint of shyness in Missandei’s eyes at the thought of asking one of the other girls.

Ella smiled again. “How about you and I share the bed?”

Missandei felt such crushing relief.

 

Missandei’s bed was at the end of the row near the door. “Here, you don’t need to sleep so far away. There’s room,” Ella said to her softly, scooting away a little herself.

That sweet, direct way of this new girl’s made Missandei feel closer to her than she had to anyone since her lost brothers. As the girls around her whispered and giggled as always, Missandei soon found herself narrating her own tale to Ella, which she hadn’t revealed to anyone: the village she grew up in was raided by slavers, and to save her, her two brothers snuck her out during the chaos. When they reached the docks, the brothers pooled their resources to stow away to Westeros, but the stern ship’s mate helping them insisted there was only room for one.

The brothers didn’t have to think about it. Missandei would go.

Missandei panicked, not wanting to leave her brothers behind. They’d smiled and laughed at her, saying she wasn’t half as mature as she thought she was, obviously.

She’d cried and hit them. “Yes, I am!”

“Then prove it,” Mossador told her. “Go on. You’ll be safe, my darling.”

When she arrived in Westeros, she’d had nothing. She wandered the streets dirty and starving, until she fainted not far from the opera house.

When she woke up, she was in Dr. Tarly’s office at the opera. Madame Olenna was there. The old woman poked at her limbs and said, “You look flexible enough. Can you dance at all? Never mind, I’ll train it into you. You’re young.”

And so here she was. She didn’t know how to reach her brothers. She didn’t know if they were captured or if they’d escaped, or if they were even alive.

When Missandei finished speaking, she realized there were tears on her cheeks.

She hadn’t cried since that day on the docks.

She also noticed that she was somehow in Ella’s arms.

“Your brothers were right, Missandei,” she said. “You are safe. And I’ll look after you now, as they did.”

Missandei couldn’t help feeling skeptical at first. She didn’t want to end up some do-gooder white lady’s pet project – she’d had to dodge such attentions from a few condescending opera patrons already, well-meaning as they might have been.

What finally moved Missandei was the tears she saw in Ella’s own magnificent eyes.

Ella kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s sleep now.”

She blew out their candle. The other girls were finally asleep.

The soothing feeling of Ella’s hand through her hair soon lulled Missandei into a sweet dreamless sleep.

 

Ella stared silently into the darkness for an hour. She glanced down at the young girl in her arms. _Slavery. That something like slavery still thrives in this day and age._

She was consumed by a scorching hatred.

Confident everyone in the long narrow room was fast asleep, she gently disentangled herself from Missandei and crept to her bag of belongings.

She hastened to the dressing room and changed into breeches.

She stared at herself briefly in the mirror.

She’d never get used to this odd dye job. It was necessary, though. Anyone who saw her natural silver-white hair would peg her at once as Targaryen. Dany couldn’t risk anyone discovering her identity yet.

Daenerys chose the name Ella for Rhaella, the mother she never knew. She chose Darry for kindly old Willem Darry, the butler who had shielded her from the mad father who died before the little girl could fully remember him. Unfortunately, the faithful servant likewise died while Dany was young, before her brother Viserys truly revealed his own mad temper.

And Viserys’s madness was growing.

Her first beating at his hands was when he learned that she was teaching herself ballet.

“I won’t have any sister of mine dancing like an opera whore! What happened to our older brother is lesson enough for both of us!”

And yet with a sullen stubbornness she still didn’t fully realize she possessed, she kept on her self-training in secret, pouring over the dance books Rhaegar had left behind when he moved away to the opera.

Viserys’s madness reached a fevered pitch once he learned of his brother’s true fate two years ago. “The animals! Burying him in some secret location without our consent! I’ll make them pay. I’ll show them a true dragon.”

When she’d quietly pointed out that not only had their nephew reached out to them through respectful inquiring letters which Viserys ignored, but that policemen had tried informing them in person before Viserys demanded the servants dismiss them, Viserys lashed out again and slapped her.

He’d raged and ranted, pacing the house like he was demon-possessed.

 _This is why the world ignores us. This is why we’re all alone,_ Dany had thought as she watched her brother descend deeper and deeper into incoherence, like their father before him.

All they had was the big empty house, remote from the center of town. All they had was Illyrio Mopatis, their tutor who insinuated himself into a position of guardianship and practical ownership of the estate over the years.

Many were the nights Dany would sneak to her bedroom door and listen outside as Illyrio quite respectfully and courteously talked her brother into signing away this or that property, to approving this sale or that acquisition. A few weeks back, she even heard him supply Viserys with a list of potential suitors for Daenerys – rich suitors that would help re-supply the Targaryens with the fortune that was rapidly dwindling.

Daenerys’s throat tightened and eyes burned as she listened. Viserys was surprisingly receptive. Dany had come to believe Viserys would never let Dany out of his sight. Lately his eyes followed her just a little too closely around the house. He’d even taken to grabbing her arm as she passed, asking in a light voice if she ever heard the funny story that back in the Middle Ages, the Targaryens used to wed brother and sister together.

Frank and terrifying lust stared out of his eyes.

The combination of this and the possibility of marrying against her will made Dany shut the door and dive into bed, clutching the blankets around her like a child. She was close to hyperventilating.

That night she had her first dream about dancing with dragons.

She was alone on a stage of some sort. She’d emerged from a fire, and was now facing blackness before her. 

She heard a hiss and smelled smoky breath. 

From the blackness crawled three gigantic dragons.

Instead of fear, Dany felt a maternal twist in her heart as she reached out to them –

They flew a few feet into the air.

They flew in graceful circles, intertwined with each other.

They were dancing.

Dany looked down at her own feet. She wore toe shoes.

She began to mimic their movements. They flew closer to her, above her.

She was dancing with the three dragons.

Soon the dreams changed, altered. She saw catacombs and a black lake, a fortress and a ruined home hidden behind a portcullis.

She saw a library, overbrimming with books. She saw a trapdoor beneath a rug….

Illyrio and Viserys continued their low private chats during the day, sure Dany at her piano or at her needlework couldn’t notice or hear.

About two weeks after the dreams started, the letter came.

She was watering the garden when a small solemn-looking child in street clothes slipped through the bars of the gate and ran up to her.

Expression unchanging, he handed her a letter in a blank envelope.

Dany stared at the boy dumbly. He merely put a finger to his lips and then disappeared from whence he came.

Inside the envelope, the letter was florid but to the point. Her heart stopped. Here were directions to the catacombs she had seen in her dream, to the lake, to the lair….

There was no signature except a seal in the shape of a spider.

All at once her blood was on fire. Something was growing inside her, and if it were to burst, it couldn’t be here, in front of her brother, in front of Illyrio’s watchful eyes.

She ran away that night, taking all the silver and fine collectibles she could force into her bag. With these she bought lodgings at an inn and hair dye.

Viserys would be too embarrassed to publish notices of her disappearance, but she must be careful of any private investigators he and Illyrio might set on her heels.

She wasted no time, then, to introduce herself here at the opera house. Her dancing won over the Tyrell woman. She had a contract now. She’d been successful so far.

She removed from the bottom of her belongings the letter with the spider stamp. The letter in one hand, a lantern in the other, she began her descent to the underground, mind whirling.

Ygritte’s words hummed in the back of her head. This Northern dancer would soon be Daenerys’s niece by marriage.

Jon Snow, Daenerys’s nephew.

All her life she’d been the baby, petted and stamped down in turns by her older brother.

Now she discovered she was the aunt of a grown man.

She didn’t know how to feel about this. She didn’t know how to feel about Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane, Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark, Gregor Clegane. 

She didn’t know how to feel about her older brother’s madness, he whose memory she’d always been taught by Viserys to admire and revere. 

Yet the thought of Rhaegar brought back the flames tickling inside her veins. She could see in her mind’s eye his death’s head, morphing slowly into a dragon’s skull.

_But he was no true dragon. Fire cannot mar a dragon._

She was unsure why she thought this with such finality, but she knew it to be true.

Daenerys found the route the spider writer outlined for her down below the stables. Why she should trust this anonymous stranger’s words, she wasn’t sure. This could be an enemy, an imposter, someone out for a practical joke at her family’s expense.

Yet here was the tunnel from the letter, here the spiraling staircase.

Here were the steps that led to a black lake.  
 

She froze when she saw the water.

Daenerys Targaryen was never so exulted in her life.

She adjusted the flame in her lantern to better see along the bank’s edge. And there, there it was – a newly polished boat, just waiting for her.

With her graceful dancer’s training, she daintily stepped into the boat, barely rocking it.

A letter waited for her on the boat's seat.

 _“Well done.”_ – Again, the spider seal.

Dany put aside the letter. She felt momentary doubt. She’d never even been in a boat before. To row a boat for the first time alone, in the dark underground, to a destination she wasn’t even sure of? Truly this was madness.

She closed her eyes and breathed in.

She took the oar in her hands.

A great calm descended her. An ancient confidence.

She could see as if she were asleep every detail of her dreams, which placed her where she was now. She knew exactly where to go, how to row.

She cast off.

 

She smiled in grim triumph once she saw the portcullis. It had apparently never come down after the police raised it to make a thorough investigation of her brother’s final home.

She secured her boat to one of the gargoyles still guarding the entrance, having miraculously suvived the looters.

Dany refused to take in the destruction of her brother’s sad dwelling, the broken remains of stolen furniture, the art ripped from the frames.

It was as if her dream had taken invisible human form and was leading her by hand to the wide wall opposite from where she felt sure the organ used to sit.

She nudged softly at the long crease in the wall.

Miraculously, it opened.

Unlike in her dream, the library was empty of all books. She’d read not long after Rhaegar’s death was announced that Sansa and Jon had pooled their resources to make sure half the books were preserved in a storage room that Jon would inherit and give to his offspring, and the other half gifted to charities. Hopefully that’s where the pipe organ, the Targaryen weaponry, and the majority of art went as well, before the looters had the chance to make off with the rest.

Oddly enough, the rug remained over the trap door.

Dany pulled it away, ignoring the dust now coating her hands and clothes.

Using every ounce of strength she possessed in her slender arms, she at last succeeded in opening the trap door. The air from below was cool and smelled richly of dirt.

She took another breath and climbed down the long ladder.  
 

She relit her lantern. She shivered.

The area she was in was so immense it was humbling. This spacious vault made the cellars she’d just climbed down look like a peasant’s cramped basement.

All she could see was a foggy mist past countless columns reaching upward into carved archways. The ground was damp and muddy.

The dream came back to her through her shock and she turned to the right.

She saw a long stretch of ground that protruded slightly above the rest. 

_This. This is where the Phantom – my brother – is buried._

She knelt down and lowered her lantern.

 _Yes._

There was the neat silver plague with Rhaegar’s name and the years he’d lived engraved.

Below the plaque was his long black mask.

Dany tried to picture her nephew and his cousin standing here, mourning the lost madman. The lost genius. They must have either bribed or used their influence to convince the police, the undertakers, and the gravediggers never to reveal his resting place. 

She tried to picture the once brother and sister, now cousins, holding hands silently as they stared at the mound that now held their father and teacher.

Her mind was too full, however, to fully picture it.

She frowned as she noticed a much smaller grave to the left. On the plaque was the name 'Balerion' accompanied by a paw print.

_Dragons._

She looked again at her brother's resting place.

She picked up his mask and held it to her own face.

She closed her eyes and a strange sweet warmth filled her.

_Brother._

But her work was not yet done. She knew with such certainty what else was hidden here. Something neither Rhaegar’s son nor his pupil knew. 

Only Daenerys from her dreams and the spider – the spider might know.

She placed the mask back below the plaque.

She knew, somehow, that what was hidden was hidden in the blackest darkness. And so she headed off in the direction where no light came through, where even behind one’s lids in the middle of the night it was never so dark.

She walked for what seemed like hours, but she never tired. She was so consumed by her purpose that she buried any fear she felt in this isolated darkness in a deep place that could not touch her now.

At last the vast labyrinth narrowed into a single hall, ending at a rock wall.

She lowered her lantern again.

Another protuberance in the ground, much smaller now.

She wondered briefly if she needed to go all the way back above to find a shovel, but the dream was back taking her hand and leading her to the soft ground.

She tore away the dirt and rocks herself.

The trunk was not buried very deeply, for whomever had buried it centuries ago did not reckon the ground shifting upward.

The locks were rusted and weak, and so she was able to lift the lid quite easily.

She smiled dreamily, sparkling eyes taking in the treasure. Practically fossilized, but she could sense the searing warmth radiating from within.

Three dragon eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a nasty habit of ending my stories with seeming cliffhangers without any inclination to continue the story. Still, I'm always open to people picking up where I left off, so just credit me! I really don't have any strong preference for what happens next, except I'm quite firm on one thing: Sandor and Sansa have three more children, all girls. Other than Elia Lyanna, their names are Rhaenys Arya, Jonquil Catelyn, and Wylla Edwina. They're pretty much the March sisters combined with the Schuyler sisters, and I just love the idea of the big ol' Hound surrounded on all sides by little chirping girl-birds.
> 
> Also, Sansa accidentally got drunk on their honeymoon, and Sandor still teases her mercilessly about it.
> 
> Thank you so much to all you guys, your comments and kudos and general support have made this a delightful fun time! I hope the conclusion satisfies all of you. In case you're wondering, no, Tysha was not gang-raped in this version, but she was still harassed by that asshole father-in-law of hers and his goons. As for Varys, well...he's about. Somewhere. Watching and scheming. Was he really as sympathetic as he presented himself in his narrative, or was it all an act? Or a little bit of both? Hmmm....
> 
> Thank you again for reading, everyone!


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